


But Not the Song

by emilyray (emilyenrose), ignipes



Series: But Not The Song [1]
Category: Bandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-06
Updated: 2008-07-05
Packaged: 2017-10-16 02:08:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 19
Words: 192,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/167282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emilyenrose/pseuds/emilyray, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignipes/pseuds/ignipes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The epic bandom slavefic. Running and shooting and angsting and kissing and more angsting and a bunch of kids named Alex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. But Not the Song (1/17)

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**But Not the Song (1/17)**   
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[Story Index and Warnings](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/446.html)

[Prologue](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/552.html)

  
_  
**i.**   
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_March._

Business at the slave market is slow.

It's been drizzling since dawn and there's a bitter wind across the plains, buffeting the lines of shivering slaves and slicing through Brendon's threadbare clothes. He tries to keep still, mindful of the way the slaves around him hiss and glare when he fidgets, but he aches all over from the cold, and his nose is running and his feet are freezing into the mud, and the merchant walking slowly along the lines is taking too fucking long.

The merchant is the only potential buyer who's stopped for more than a minute all day. He's dressed in fine but outdated clothes, and his boots need polishing. He carries a riding crop, snapping it smartly at slaves' legs and backsides and smirking when they jump to attention. The caravan master follows him like an eager dog, barely able to hide his excitement. Brendon has only been in the caravan for a few days, bought with a handful of others at another market, but he knows it's been longer than that since the master last made a good sale.

The merchant stops and taps his riding crop against the side of his leg. Without looking at the master, he says, "I was hoping to find something a bit more refined. I am not interested in ordinary beasts."

Behind his back, the caravan master makes a face, but when the merchant turns he schools it quickly into proper obsequiousness. "Times are hard, good sir," he says, "but I do have some property with special skills, if you would care to consider it."

The merchant gestures carelessly. "Very well," he says with a bored sigh. "Show me your treats."

They walk along the line again, stopping only to discuss those slaves the master claims to have unique talents. The slaves around Brendon shy away subtly, trying to distance themselves from him without being obvious about it. Brendon wants to watch the master and the buyer, to keep an eye on them, but he knows it will only lead to trouble. He clasps his hands behind his back and bows his head, stares at the shackle around his ankle and doesn't move when the merchant's unpolished boots come into view.

"Musician, sir," the master says. "Very accomplished. He's performed for many great families in the city, to the envy of all."

The merchant snorts in disbelief. "This wretch? I find that hard to believe."

"I would never lie to you, sir," the caravan master lies smoothly.

Brendon's expecting it, but he still jumps at the sting of the crop against the back of his legs. The merchant lodges the handle of the whip under his chin and forces him to look up. Brendon meets his eyes for the briefest moment then drops his gaze, and he doesn't flinch when the man grabs his chin and tilts his head from side to side. The merchant's hands are clammy and his breath stinks, and this close Brendon can see the stains on his once-fine shirt, the fraying edges on his cuffs and loosening seams on his shoulders.

The man lets him go. "A plaything for a pampered female," he says dismissively. "I have no use for such a creature."

Brendon hides a sigh of relief as the man walks away.

"Of course not, sir." The caravan master hurries after the merchant. He hesitates a moment, then leans closer and lowers his voice conspiratorially. "If I may be so bold, sir, may I inquire as to whether you have interest in, shall we say, a plaything more suited to gentlemanly pursuits?"

The merchant taps his riding crop against his leg. "I have been known to indulge from time to time."

The master's eyes light up. He snaps his fingers at one of the mercenary guards. "You heard the gentleman," he says sharply. "Bring the pretty bird, and quickly."

The guard hurries away. A minute later he returns with another slave, a boy about Brendon's age, rail-thin and naked except for the leather collar around his neck and the shackle around his ankle. There are jangling bracelets around his wrists and hoops in his ears, and his face is painted with the intricate, colorful designs Brendon's only seen before on courtesans in wealthy houses. It makes him look wild and exotic, too bright for a dull, dirty caravan in the freezing rain. The guard gives him a shove and the boy stumbles, but he does not fall. He stands upright, his back and shoulders straight, his head held high and his expression almost haughty as he looks down his nose at the merchant.

"Well, well," the merchant says, a slow smile curling his lips. "What have we here?"

"He is very well-trained," the caravan master says. His eyes flick away from the merchant just long enough to glare at the collared slave. Even from several feet away Brendon can see the threat in that brief look. "I daresay there is no favor you will find too... _unusual_."

"I see," the merchant says. He walks in a circle around the slave, looking him up and down with deliberate slowness. The boy doesn't move; the only sign that he's aware of the merchant is the twitching of his muscles where the man touches the riding crop to his skin. "He's a little bony for my tastes," the man says.

"Food is scarce, sir," the master says apologetically.

The merchant makes a noncommittal noise in his throat and stops behind the boy. He drags the riding crop along the inside of the boy's thigh, over the crack of his ass and up the line of his spine. The boy still doesn't move, but something about his posture changes and Brendon can see his knees shaking slightly. He should look away. He hates watching bedslaves being sold. He hates the sick hunger on the merchant's face, the litany of _thank god it's not me, thank god it's not me_ running through his mind and the mind of every other slave in the caravan. But there's a unnatural hush over the afternoon, as though even the wind and rain are holding their breath, waiting for the merchant to speak or the boy to react, and Brendon hates himself for staring but he can't stop.

The merchant steps around to the boy's front again, still touching him only with the tip of the crop, the leather pressed into his collarbone.

"Open your mouth for me, pretty," the merchant says, his voice low, almost purring. "I want to see how much cock you can handle."

The boy's lips are pressed together in a straight line.

"Now," the merchant says sharply.

The boy doesn't respond. He's staring at a point over the merchant's shoulder, his face completely blank, his eyes empty.

The caravan master starts to say something, but the merchant moves quickly. He grabs the boy's chin so tight the boy's lips part with a startled gasp, and the merchant smiles. The boy's eyes narrow and he jerks his chin free of the man's grasp, snakes his head down and bites the man's hand, _hard_.

 _Holy shit,_ Brendon thinks. A murmur rises from the slaves all around, and angry muttering from the guards. _Holy shit._

The merchant lets out a howl of pain and pulls his hand free - it takes a tug, a grunt of pain, the boy is really fucking _biting_ him - and the man lashes out, hits the boy hard enough to knock him backwards, into a guard. The guard doesn't catch the boy but shoves him again, pushes him to his knees and grabs the his hair so hard his head jerks back.

"What the hell are you doing?" the merchant screams, clutching one hand in the other. "You filthy little whore, I ought to – " He takes two long steps forward, but the caravan master intercepts him. "Get out of my way, you fucking weasel, or bring me a knife so I can put down that fucking animal myself."

The master is babbling apologies and promises and soothing nonsense, steering the merchant away from the kneeling slave. But the merchant ignores the master's pleas to reconsider, turns on his heel and strides back to where his horse is waiting. Moments later he's riding away, leaving the caravan behind.

The murmuring amongst the slaves stops abruptly when the master returns. His expression is murderous, and his voice is shaking when he stands over the kneeling boy and says, "Do you think this is fucking _funny_ , you worthless bitch?"

The boy twists his head just enough to loosen the guard's grip in his hair. He looks up at the master for a long moment, then turns his head deliberately and spits on the ground. "He tasted like shit," he says. There's no emotion at all in his voice.

The guard jerks the boy by his hair again, pulling so hard his knees lift off the ground. The master steps forward and raises his hand; he makes as though to strike the boy but stops with his hand just beside his cheek. He touches him gently instead, a parody of a caress, and says quietly, "You know what happens when you're disobedient, princess."

"Let us remind him what he's here for," a guard says.

"Fuck him till he behaves," another adds, and several of them laugh. "He ain't as pretty as a girl but he'll do."

"I'm not running a fucking free brothel," the master snaps. He drops his hand to his side and steps back. "But I might make an exception."

The boy watches him expressionlessly.

"Here," the master says. He holds out his hand without turning, and a guard places a bullwhip in his palm. He lets it uncoil; the slithering length falls to the ground. "I really fucking hate to mark up such expensive merchandise," he says, his voice dripping with mock regret. "All that pretty smooth skin. It's such a shame."

The boy stares, unblinking, and still does not react.

The master snaps his fingers at a nearby guard. "Bring the whore's pet dog. Nobody but him gives a fuck if that stupid piece of shit's beaten bloody."

" _No!_ " The word rips out of the boy's throat, and his blank mask drops away. He struggling and flailing his arms and trying to pull free even though it must hurt like hell. "No! Don't – it was me, don't, _please_ – "

The master throws back his head and laughs. "So that's what it takes to get you to beg?"

The guard comes back, dragging another slave behind him. He's a taller boy, with a round face smudged with dirt and the wiry muscles of somebody who's been doing labor all his life. The guard is walking so fast the boy can barely stay upright, and he throws the boy to the ground at the master's feet when he reaches him. The boy doesn't try to stand or even look up. His hair falls over his face and his shoulders are shaking but he doesn't make a sound.

" _No_ ," the other boy says again. He's gone pale under his paint and he's still fighting against the guard, but his voice is quieter and he's looking at his friend now, not the master. "It was me, it wasn't – it was me."

The master looks down at the two of them. "Isn't that sweet," he drawls. "Maybe I should offer you up as a pair. I bet you can teach your boy to suck cock real pretty when he's taking it up the ass."

The boy snarls and lunges forward again, only to be snapped back again by the guard's fist in his hair. The master jerks his chin at the other boy and says, "Get him up. Over there, get some fucking rope." To the boy with the painted face he says, "If you don't shut the fuck up, I'll let the men do whatever the fuck they want to you, and your boyfriend too."

Two guards drag the other boy to his feet and over to the nearest wagon. Brendon stumbles out of the way with the other slaves, tripping over the chains binding their feet and dodging the guards' boots. The men pull the boy's shirt over his head and loop a rope around his wrists, lash it to the side of the wagon so that his face is pressed against the rough wood and he's held up by his arms at just the height where he can neither stand nor kneel. There is already a patchwork of scars on his back, overlapping lines that look like they've been collected over years.

The master cracks the whip several feet away, and the boy tenses but doesn't make a sound. "It's okay if you scream, sweetheart," the master says. "Maybe if you're loud enough, your little bitch boyfriend will behave next time."

The boy doesn't scream, but Brendon is close enough that he can hear the soft, stifled whimper after every lash. He holds his breath and counts silently; the master goes to twenty-five before he lowers his arm to his side, panting slightly. The boy's back is slashed crimson, the wounds bleeding freely, blood soaking into the waistband of his trousers.

The master takes a minute to curl the whip into a coil. He examines the blood on his fingers, then points with the coil at the painted boy, still on his knees and staring, wide-eyed and silent. "Put that one in the cage," he says.

The guard hauls the boy his feet; the cheap bracelets on the boy's wrists jangle softly.

"What about the other one?" a second guard asks. He glances at the whipped boy with an expression of distaste that turns into an amused smirk when the boy jerks suddenly, kicking his feet out and trying to find a footing to stand.

"Leave him there," says the master. He looks down and spits on the boy, then turns away. "If he can't walk, drag him. We've got to get the fuck out of here. Fucking wasted day."

The guards go along the lines, shouting and dragging the slaves into place. It's slow, moving the entire caravan when the slaves are bound, but the guards don't risk untying anybody until they're a couple of miles outside of town and ready to set up camp for the night. Brendon is one of the first they untie. They probably think he's too young or too stupid to make trouble; he doesn't know which it is, but he's not doing anything to change their minds. He rubs at where his ankle is chafed raw and finds a place to sit down, near the edge of the group but not so far from the other slaves that he's exposed to the full force of the wind.

The guards have circled the wagons around the camp like they do every night. To his right Brendon can see the boy who was whipped still tied up, the rope still too short to let him sit or even kneel. To Brendon's left is what the master jokingly calls the "behave-yourself" wagon: it's nothing more than a cage mounted on wheels, open to the elements and pulled along by a sullen mule. The other boy is in that one, still naked and huddled in a corner against the iron bars. Brendon can't see his face clearly in the twilight, but he knows, he _knows_ the boy is staring across the camp at his friend.

"Dinner."

Brendon jumps, startled. "Oh." It's only a tiny hunk of bread, a couple of bites, but Brendon says, "Thank you."

The mercenary guard handing out the bread is the only one Brendon knows by name, because he's the only one who bothers to speak to the slaves directly. His name is Zack and his arms and neck are covered with dozens of gladiator tattoos. Brendon heard the other guards talking: Zack is relatively new to the caravan, but it's rare for a gladiator to live long enough to become a freedman and the other guards regard him with a wary respect. Brendon's glad Zack's one of the decent ones, the kind who keeps the others in line and stops them from hurting the slaves too much.

He takes a bite of his bread and goes back to watching. The boy in the cage hasn't moved. He could be a statue, cold and lifeless in the rapidly fading light.

"His name's Ryan," Zack says. "Ross. He's got a proper surname like a free man, and he never lets anyone forget it."

Brendon starts again and glances around nervously. He doesn't know why Zack is talking to him – maybe because he's the last mouth to feed, maybe Zack is just bored – and he doesn't know what to say, so he says, "Oh."

"Gets into trouble every fucking day of the week and twice on Sunday." Zack doesn't sound like he thinks it's funny, like the other guards do. "That shit he pulled today, that's typical."

Brendon says, "Oh."

"They say he was freeborn, captured in a fucking border raid or some shit," Zack goes on. "Who the fuck knows."

Brendon fidgets a little, pulling the bread apart in his hands, but he has to ask, "Why are you telling me this?" He didn't ask for gossip. He knows that you don't ask, and you definitely don't ask the guards. "I don't want to know," he says. It's a lie, but it's the lie he's supposed to tell.

"You're new," says Zack, "and maybe I'm wrong, but I get the impression you haven't spent much time dragging around in the caravans. Not a fancy toy like you."

Brendon doesn't look at Zack when he says, "Long enough."

Half a year. Half a year since Lady Victoria vanished and Brendon, along with all her other property, was confiscated by the crown and sold at auction for a fraction of what he should have been worth. Six long months that feel like six years, being bought and sold by progressively cheaper and meaner caravan masters. The winter was too hard and too many people are dying from plague. Nobody's looking to buy a trained pet to sit at the piano and show off to their friends, especially not one too small to be much use for real work. But Brendon knows six months is nothing. There are old men in the caravan, stooped and toothless and half-blind, who have been traded at cheap markets along the roads for their entire lives.

Zack says, "You seem like a smart enough kid, and maybe you know how to stay out of trouble. Once summer comes, people will be willing to spend a little more. Somebody'll snatch you up. Keep your head down and you'll be fine."

"I don't make trouble," Brendon tells him.

"Well," Zack says, neither believing nor disbelieving. "Just in case you get ideas, you should know, that's what trouble gets you." He nods toward the behave-yourself wagon.

Brendon looks at the boy in the cage – _Ryan_ , he thinks, _he has a name_ – then turns around slowly and looks across to the other side of the camp, to the boy still tied to the wagon. "That too?"

Zack makes a noise in his throat, short and angry. "That too. That kid – says his name's Spencer when he bothers to talk at all, who the fuck knows if that's true – used to belong to Ross's family. They've known each other forever, pull all kinds of stupid shit to avoid getting split up." Zack snorts, almost like a laugh. "Fucking lot of good it's done them. They'll end up in the silver mines if the old bastard can't get back what he paid, and chances of that are pretty fucking slim." He glances around, sees that no other guards are nearby, and deliberately spits on the ground. "You got friends around here, kid, don't let anyone see it."

Brendon chews the last bite of bread slowly. "I don't," he says quietly. "Not like that."

"Good," Zack says gruffly. He looks up and scowls, like he's surprised to find himself gossiping with one of the slaves. "Look, it's the warning I give all the kids. It doesn't mean shit."

"Thank you," says Brendon sincerely.

Zack shakes his head. "You're a strange one." He starts to walk away.

"Are you – " Brendon bites his lip when Zack looks back at him. "Are you going to leave him there all night?" he asks in a rush, before he can lose his nerve. "He can't even – the way he's tied up, he can't even sit down."

Zack stares at him. Brendon shrinks back a little, curling his shoulders inward. But Zack only shakes his head and turns away again. "That's exactly what I'm talking about," he says. "Trouble."

But about half an hour later, when the chores are done and most of the guards are gathered around the master's fire, Brendon sees Zack cross the camp to where the boy – Spencer – is tied up. Zack unties the ropes and helps the boy to his feet, looks around to makes sure nobody is watching before helping the boy into his shirt again. Then he presses a bundle of something into the boy's hands – clothes, Brendon thinks, maybe food and water too – and says something. The boy doesn't answer or even look up, but as Zack walks away, he makes a beeline across the camp. He's unsteady on his feet, wincing with every step, but he doesn't stop until he's at the behave-yourself wagon, stumbling and catching himself on the bars.

As Brendon watches, Ryan crawls over and presses their foreheads together through the bars. He's still naked. Spencer whispers something to him, but Ryan shakes his head hard; Spencer looks down, grimaces, and shoves the bundle Zack gave him through the bars, then the piece of bread. Ryan hesitates before he starts to get dressed. Brendon can't hear them, but he feels like he should look away, like he's watching something nobody else is meant to see.

Brendon waits, trying not to stare, until Zack walks by him again in his circuit around the camp. "Do you have bandages?" he asks.

Zack stops short. "What?"

"Bandages. You know, for." Brendon gestures vaguely.

Zack raises an eyebrow. "They won't let you near them."

It's not a _no_ , so Brendon says, "Can I try?"

"It'll only get you into trouble."

Brendon looks over at the behave-yourself wagon again. Ryan tears the small chunk of bread carefully in two and passes half to Spencer, who's got his forehead pressed to the bars, eyes closed. Through Spencer's thin shirt Brendon can see his shoulders crisscrossed with red marks. Some of them are still bleeding; there are stains on his shirt.

They're the bravest thing he's ever seen.

"I want to try," he says.

Zack frowns. "Don't let the bastard associate you with them. If he does, you're fucking done for."

Brendon looks up at him. "Please," he says.

"Fuck." Zack shakes his head. "It's your funeral. They'll hate you anyway."

But he wanders away, toward the wagon where they keep the extra supplies. When he comes back he presses a roll of bandages into Brendon's hands and mutters, “Don't forget to wash the cuts first.”

Ex-gladiators know that kind of thing, Brendon thinks. He starts to say, “Thank you,” again but Zack's already walking away.

The ground is muddy from the rain, and Brendon's bare feet squelch noisily as he approaches the behave-yourself wagon. Ryan and Spencer hear him and look up at the exact same time. Brendon stops.

"I have bandages," he says. He holds up the cloth for them to see. When they don't reply, he steps closer. It's barely a movement at all, but Spencer's hands tighten on the bars of the cage. "Just bandages," Brendon says. "That's all." He immediately feels stupid. They're not idiots. They can understand him just fine.

Ryan stops eating and glances at Spencer.

"What do you want?" Spencer asks. His voice is rough and low.

Brendon takes another step. "Nothing. Just, you're bleeding."

Another step, and another. Brendon thinks about the time Alex took him into the mountains to find a lost horse. They never found it, but they did find a pack of wolves: silent, shadowy creatures lurking in the twilight as they rode back to Lady Victoria's estate. He remembers Alex speaking in a soft, steady voice, telling stories just to have something to say, and he remembers wondering childishly if the wolves never attacked because they were afraid of Alex's voice or because they wanted to hear how the stories ended.

Brendon thinks it's a good sign that Spencer hasn't tried to bite him yet. "Can I – will you let me?"

Ryan says, "The master will see you."

Brendon looks over his shoulder. The master is enjoying his food and wine by a fire at the other end of the caravan, and most of the guards are with him. "It's okay," he says. "Nobody's watching. I can just –"

He starts forward, but the wagon rocks as Ryan scrambles across the cage. "Don't," he says, sharp and commanding. Definitely freeborn, Brendon thinks. No slave learns to speak like that. "Don't touch him." Ryan sticks his hand through the bars. "Give them to me."

Brendon puts the bandages in Ryan's hand and steps back. He watches Ryan unroll the cloth with trembling hands, glancing warily toward the caravan master's fire as though he expects the man to come roaring at them at any moment.

Spencer glances at campfire again, then locks eyes with Ryan. Some silent communication flickers between them - Brendon can't read it, their faces barely move - and then something that might be an attempt at a bitter smile flashes across Spencer's face. He stands up straight and pulls off his shirt in one quick motion, a gasp of pain hissing between his teeth. Brendon stares; he's never seen the aftermath of a whipping this close before. Lady Victoria never whipped anyone. The dried blood from the deeper cuts has soaked into Spencer's shirt, and there are bits of cloth stuck to his back. Some of the wounds are bleeding sluggishly again. Ryan makes a tiny, tiny noise, and his hands shake harder. He can barely keep hold of the bandages.

"It's nothing," says Spencer. It's the biggest lie Brendon's heard in a while. "Just - cover up the worst ones, okay?"

"Spencer," says Ryan, without expression.

"I said it's _nothing_."

Brendon finally manages to make his voice work. "You ought to -" he begins, and stops as both of them glare at him. Ryan's expression says _why are you still here?_ , clear as daylight. Spencer doesn't really have an expression at all. "You ought to - water," he manages to say. "Wash them out. It'll be worse, if they get infected, or. Or he does it again."

Neither one answers, but Ryan picks up the jug of water Spencer brought him earlier. "No," says Spencer. "That's for you. You _drink_ it, idiot."

"Shut up," says Ryan. "Show me your back."

"No."

"I'll get more," says Brendon. "Zack likes me. I can get more."

Spencer and Ryan don't look at him, but after a moment Spencer nods in his general direction. Brendon sets off through the mud, and he doesn't see Ryan reach through the bars to pour his water over Spencer's back, but he hears Spencer's hiss of pain.

Zack is standing with some of the other mercenaries at the edge of the camp, watching over the huddled, sleeping slaves. The guards are talking and laughing, and Brendon stops several feet away, uncertain. Most of the slaves are still chained together, but there are a few, like Brendon, who are well-behaved and never try to run – who won't make it very far anyway if they do, is the joke.

It's probably true. Brendon doesn't know the land they're traveling through. They've been heading south steadily for weeks, a long meandering circuit of the provinces before the caravan reaches the city. Here there's nothing but flat, featureless grassland on either side of the road, open skies and unending wind, no landmarks to follow. The road snakes along a long, wide valley towards the rocks and scrubby trees of the mountain passes. There's no place to hide, and the city and its enormous open slave markets are only a few weeks' journey from here. They'll probably be there for summer, swinging through one more province before they stop for a month or so on the stinking edge of the market quarter.

Brendon remembers, or thinks he remembers, that one of the provinces on the far side of the mountains is the one that outlawed slave caravans some years ago. Lady Victoria had been very excited about it for some reason. He guesses they won't be going there.

Being free to move around the caravan doesn't mean he can walk up to the guards and demand water. He stands to the side and hugs himself against the cold wind and waits. Zack finally looks his way, speaks to the other guards for a few more minutes, then wanders over to Brendon. "They chase you away?"

Brendon glances back at the wagon. He can't see much more than the silhouette in the darkness. "Can I have some water, please?" he asks.

Zack stares down at him, and for a moment Brendon is scared he'll say no, maybe even laugh and kick Brendon away like the other men do when slaves ask for water. But Zack exhales sharply and shakes his head. "You gotta be careful, kid," he says, and he wanders away again. A few seconds later he's back with a small jug in hand. He shoves it at Brendon and says, "Don't get used to it."

"Thank you," Brendon says quietly, and he runs back to the wagon.

Ryan is whispering fervently to Spencer through the bars of the cage, but he hasn't done anything with the bandages yet. They both look up when Brendon approaches – it's a little eerie how they do that – and it's obvious from their expressions they didn't expect Brendon to come back at all.

"I brought more water," he says. He doesn't take his time stepping up to the cage now, just sets the jug carefully inside the bars and doesn't move away. "Not a lot, but it's – do you need help?"

"No," Ryan says, too quickly. He doesn't say _go away now_ , but it's clear anyway.

"Because I can..." Brendon hesitates. "I can help," he says. "I'm good at patching up wounds." It's a bit of an exaggeration; he's done it once before. A man had turned up one night, staggering to the kitchen door, saying he was a friend of Alex's and he'd been attacked by wolves: Alex had recognized him, anyway, and jumped to his feet, exclaiming at the blood on his shirt. And at least Brendon's calm enough to hold the bandages without dropping them, which is more than Ryan can say.

Spencer says, "We don't need your help."

"Okay," Brendon says. "Okay. Then I'll just... okay."

He doesn't back away. He watches Ryan press the strips of cloth against Spencer's back. There aren't enough bandages to do a proper job of it, and Ryan's hands are so unsteady Brendon's surprised he can hold them at all. When Spencer's entire body goes tense, Ryan murmurs something that sounds like, " _Sorry, sorry_ ," and jerks his hands away, fumbling the bandages and almost dropping them in the mud. "Sorry," Ryan says again, his voice cracking on the word.

"Ry..."

Ryan takes a slow breath and, without turning his head, holds out the bandages for Brendon to take. He doesn't say anything, no _please_ , no _can you...?_ He doesn't even look at Brendon.

Brendon steps forward quickly. "Yeah," he says. "Hold still, okay?"

Spencer makes a sound that's almost a laugh. "I'm not going anywhere."

Brendon does the best he can, trying to look competent and serious and kind - but not pitying, he knows instinctively neither of them will forgive him if they think he feels sorry for them. Spencer is shivering a little in the sharp evening breeze, and his skin under Brendon's hands is chilled and damp. Ryan wraps both his hands around the cage's bars so tightly his knuckles go white, and he watches every movement of Brendon's fingers like a hawk.

"There," says Brendon when he's done. "There, that's it."

Spencer pulls away and shrugs his shoulders carefully, testing the pain. "Okay," he says. There's dead silence for a moment.

"I'll just go, then," says Brendon.

"Good idea," says Ryan, and there's an unpleasant lilt in his voice, the sneering sound only free people ever use.

Brendon bristles. He's had masters who talked to him like that, sometimes, when they were angry, and he's met slaves with masters who sounded that way the whole time - but Ryan's no one's master. Ryan's not any better than he is, not now, and Brendon just _helped_ them. "You ought to be more careful," he says. "Most people aren't as nice as me."

" _Ought?_ " repeats Ryan, and his head comes up, chin held at an arrogant tilt. Brendon can see why the caravan master hates him, he's all hard lines and defiant angles behind the cage bars, all unquenchable pride. "We don't need nice. We don't need _anything_. Who do you think you are anyway, slave boy?"

And that's _it_. "A survivor," retorts Brendon with a lot more confidence than he actually feels. " _Slave boy._ "

Ryan's mouth twists in fury, but "Ryan," says Spencer. Ryan turns his glare on him momentarily before his eyes fall on the bandages and he slumps again, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing the side of his face into the cage bars like it's a wall, like he can hide. Spencer reaches through and wraps a hand around his wrist. "What's your name?" he says.

It takes Brendon a moment to realize Spencer means _him_. "Brendon," he says.

"Brendon," says Spencer. "Thanks."

Brendon says, "You're welcome," as evenly as he can. Then he turns and walks away, finds a spot to curl up with the other slaves. The rain clouds are clearing, and Brendon watches falling stars until he slips into sleep.

In the morning one of the carts breaks an axle when it gets stuck in the mud, and the caravan master surveys his slaves with a small smile on his face. A few men will stay behind to fix it, but the master doesn't want to waste any time.

"I suppose we'll have to carry the goods," he says.

A few slaves lower their heads, shuffle their feet, but most of them don't react. They know better.

Brendon can guess what the master's going to do even before he starts pointing and calling out. The man points to a man with a sprained ankle, a woman with a broken arm, a couple of guys with black eyes so swollen they can barely see. And Spencer, of course. The master thinks it's funny to give the heavy labor to injured slaves, to spend the day shouting at them for their laziness while they struggle under the weight of food they'll never get to eat.

When the caravan starts moving again, with agonizing slowness through the sticky mud, Brendon hangs back a little. He doesn't make a big deal of it, not so anyone will notice, just walks a little slower until he's beside the mangy mule pulling the behave-yourself wagon. The wind is sharper, colder without all the trudging people around him, but he puts his hand on the mule's warm back and hums to himself a little. It's the fox and swan song, the one that's been in his head for days. He misses being able to sing as loud as he wants to.

"What are you doing?"

Brendon shrugs but doesn't look at Ryan. "Just walking," he says.

"You should walk somewhere else."

"I like walking here." Brendon glances over his shoulder.

Ryan's voice sounds hoarse, like he's growing ill, and he's curled into the corner of the cage, trying to make himself as small as possible. But his eyes are wide and alert, and he's watching Brendon warily.

"I heard the guards talking," Brendon says. "Earlier, I mean, they were talking about where we're going." What actually happened was that Brendon asked Zack where the caravan was headed and Zack answered, simple as that, but Brendon isn't about to tell Ryan he talks to one of the guards so easily, not even Zack. "There's a market. I guess we'll be there by night. Lots of people have been sick and they need slaves to work the farms."

Ryan says, "Why are you telling me this?" His voice is flat and it's barely a question at all.

Brendon's telling him mostly because he wants somebody to talk to besides the mule, but he's not about to admit that. "You might want to be careful not to bite anyone this time," he says. "It'll be hard for Spencer's back to heal if the master punishes – "

" _Shut up,_ " Ryan snarls. He unfolds himself like he wants to lunge at Brendon but remembers the bars of the cage and stops. "You shut _up_. You don't know what the fuck you're talking about. You don't know _anything._ "

Brendon wonders that the bars of the cage aren't rattling from the force of Ryan's fury, but the wind is sharp and the morning sun is bright, and Ryan is too thin and too small and too scared, the rusty locks on the cage too strong.

Brendon's throat is dry; he swallows uncomfortably and looks at the mule, pretending interest in the tuft of hair between its ears. "Yeah," he says. "I don't know anything."

He starts humming again. A different song, a funny, naughty song he learned when he was seventeen, sitting in the kitchen at Lady Victoria's and singing along with Alex and Ryland and the two gardeners and the housekeeper and the stable boy and almost forgetting he was the only slave in the room. He hums it slow and quiet and doesn't think about the words.

They walk in silence for a long time. The guards are shouting up ahead, but it's just their ordinary noise, keeping slaves in line and the caravan moving forward. Brendon isn't expecting it when Ryan speaks again.

"He's supposed to be free."

Brendon's step falters. "Who?" he asks, though he already knows. He wonders if Zack got the story wrong, if Spencer was freeborn too.

"I was going to..." Ryan trails off. Brendon doesn't look at him, afraid if he does Ryan won't go on. "I was waiting for my father to die, so I could set him free."

Brendon doesn't say anything.

"What are you singing?"

Surprised, Brendon twists to look at Ryan. "Oh. Nothing, really. Just an old song."

Ryan doesn't say anything more.

Brendon doesn't try to talk to Ryan for the rest of the morning. The caravan doesn't stop to eat at noon, though some of the guards move quietly through the lines of shuffling slaves handing out hunks of stale bread. Zack stops beside Brendon and looks meaningfully at his hand on the mule's back, and Brendon does his best confused face back, the one that made Lady Victoria giggle. Zack shakes his head and gives Brendon extra bread.

"He likes you," says Ryan from the cage.

"Zack's all right," says Brendon, waiting until no one is looking before he casually pushes his spare bread through the cage bars. "Don't let them see you have that."

"I don't want it."

They go on in silence for a moment. Brendon's feet are starting to hurt, and he thinks he's a little bit jealous of Ryan who at least doesn't have to walk. "You're being stupid, you know," he says at last. "You'll just die."

"I don't care."

Brendon turns to look at him. He's honestly surprised, though he probably shouldn't be. It's never occurred to him that you can do that, that you can just not care, that you can just -

Ryan has traces of the paint from yesterday still smeared across his cheekbones. His eyes are hard. "You're giving up?" says Brendon.

" _You've_ given up," Ryan answers.

Brendon shakes his head. "What about him? About Spencer? Don't you -"

"Shut _up_."

Brendon looks over his shoulder to the back of the caravan, where the wounded slaves are stumbling along. Most of the guards are back there too, now, jeering. It looks like some of them are taking bets. Zack's hanging back, watching closely, ready to go in if things get nasty. Brendon can't see Spencer. He thinks about the bandages again, how cold Spencer's skin was.

"You're being stupid," he says again. "You have to get out of the caravan. No one's got any chance here."

"No one's got any chance anywhere," says Ryan. He pauses for a long moment, and then starts speaking again, more unsteady. "I. I - if I behave. They've got no reason to keep us together."

"Sure," says Brendon. "And if you die, they've got no reason to keep him alive."

"Spencer's smart," Ryan says. "He works hard. He's worth... They won't waste..." His voice fades as he looks away.

Brendon doesn't remind him that the master hates them, that everybody in the caravan thinks both Ryan and Spencer are headed for the silver mines already. Instead he says, "You should eat."

Ryan glares at him for a second, then picks up the stale chunk of bread. They don't speak for the rest of the day.

There are farms and fields around them now, and the road is wider and well-worn. It's early spring and there should be men in the fields, turning over the earth for planting, but most are empty, and there is no smoke rising from many of the houses. The people they do see watch them pass with flat, suspicious eyes. A few kids are playing in the dirt beside the road, but instead of jeering and chasing the slaves like children normally do, they watch silently as the caravan passes.

"Plague," Ryan says.

The sound of his voice startles Brendon. "Yeah," he says. He knows the signs. He's seen them often enough, this winter.

The caravan stops to make camp before nightfall. Brendon guesses they aren't far from a village, and a cold knot of fear forms in his stomach. The caravan is bad – he's exhausted from walking so many miles, his feet ache and he's always hungry – but a slave market is always, always worse. To be stripped naked and shackled to the others in a ragged, shivering line while the buyers poke and prod and laugh like it's a social event, to watch the other slaves' faces go blank with fear when they're pulled out of the line, to try to keep from shrinking in on himself and hiding when he catches a buyer's attention – it's so, so much worse.

The guards begin moving among the slaves, sorting them into groups and rattling the chains as they shackle them together. It's not Zack who comes to drag Brendon into the line, and Brendon does his best not to flinch when the man grabs his upper arm.

"Over there," the guard says, giving him a hard shove toward a group of relatively healthy men and boys. "Don't be difficult."

Brendon isn't. He knows how to behave.

When he's a safe distance away he glances back. The guard drags the handle of his whip along the bars of the cage and grins when Ryan shrinks away from him.

"I don't think you have anything to worry about tonight, princess," the guard says with a laugh. "Folks around here are looking for men to plow the fields, not pretty birds useless for everything but fucking. But you never know. We might get lucky."

He hits the bars of the cage one more time, and Ryan doesn't really react, not in any noticeable way, but Brendon _knows_ he's about to say something, or spit on the guard, or _worse_. He whispers under his breath, "God, Ryan, _don't_."

There's no way Ryan can hear him, but he looks over quickly and catches Brendon's eye for a second. And he doesn't say anything. He turns his face away from the guard, tucks himself in the corner of the cage with his knees drawn up to his chest, and doesn't say anything at all.

The market is still in the process of being set up, and only a few locals are drifting around the outskirts, waiting for the guards to let them in to get a good look, when an enormous and enormously tasteless carriage rattles past. It's white with red-painted metalwork and a coat of arms painted on the door, pulled along by four matched, prancing black horses. It trundles to a stop a little farther down the road, and Brendon hears a high-pitched voice trill, "Oh Petey, must we? You know how I hate these things."

"Duty calls, my love," responds a male voice grandly, and the owner - obviously a gentleman, sporting high white riding boots that have clearly never been near a horse and a fancy tailored jacket - jumps down from the carriage and strides past the flummoxed guards, straight into the ring between the wagons where the slaves are being herded into something resembling a display. "Who's in charge here?" he demands.

All the slaves try not to stare as the caravan master practically lights up, scenting money, and rushes to greet the lord with exaggerated deference. The man's wife - pretty, but even more badly overdressed than he is - minces into the ring after him with a lace handkerchief pressed over her nose, followed by a dumpy balding servant with a notepad, and the bowing and scraping begins to get a little ridiculous. The lord appears to be enjoying it all immensely, and he only cuts off the slaver's effusive greetings and compliments after the servant coughs pointedly and murmurs, "Sir."

"Martin? Ah yes, of course," says the lord. "Well, let's make it quick. I've lost half my plantation boys to this damned plague. What have you got?"

The caravan master pauses, clearly doing some profitable arithmetic in his head. "One hundred and forty-one healthy adult males, Lord Wentz, ideal unskilled labor," he says. "Two dozen females. You can examine for yourself -"

"I'll take the lot," says Wentz, and bares his teeth at the master in a distinctly unsavory grin. "Or not - I know your type. My man Martin will look them over for me, in case you've miscounted, hmm? And in the meantime you and I can talk about batch prices."

The caravan master hides his horror well - his face barely quivers as he sees his profits sink, and Brendon thinks he hears one of the guards chuckle meanly. Wentz demands a lantern for his servant -"How's he supposed to see them clearly in this light, hmm?" - then offers his arm to his wife, raising an impatient eyebrow. The master claps his hands and a couple of guards bring stools and a table for the negotiations.

The servant works his way methodically through the rows of chained, naked slaves, cursorily checking each one for injuries or obvious weakness. Brendon watches out of the corner of his eye; he knows you can learn a lot about a new master by looking at the servants he's already got. Martin's coat is ill-fitting but obviously warm, and Brendon guesses that his slouched posture and stringy hair (which is hideously combed back from his receding hairline) have more to do with personal slovenliness than neglect on Wentz's part. That means the young lord is easy-going, which is good news.

The bad news is that Brendon's pretty sure he's about half an hour away from becoming a plantation slave, and he knows they get treated very differently from household staff.

Brendon's in the third row, so it doesn't take Martin long to get to him. When he does, he does his job quickly and efficiently, walking around Brendon twice and then making a note on his notepad. "Lift your feet," he says, and Brendon does. Martin shakes his head when he sees the mud on them. "Fucking Pete," he mutters. "All right, let's see your teeth, kid."

That's when Brendon looks up - it's pretty much impossible not to look at someone when he's checking your teeth, he's discovered, though some people make you try - and so that's when he looks at Martin properly for the first time, and he knows the brief, stunned moment of recognition on the man's face is echoed on his own -

Because it's _Patrick_.

Brendon _knows_ Patrick. Brendon's sung duets with Patrick, bashed out piano compositions with Patrick, argued musical theory with him late into the night while they got steadily drunker and drunker on Lady Victoria's best wine. Patrick is a close personal friend of Lady Victoria's – though not a drone, never a drone, Brendon remembers her sighing about it once and saying, _If I have to marry someone, I'd much rather it were Patrick than any of these idiots_. Patrick wears well-cut but unfashionable clothes and good boots. Patrick is never seen anywhere without a hat. Patrick is a country man who likes to tease Lady Victoria about her appreciation for city life in general and the famous Angels and Kings Club in particular. Patrick sometimes turns up at the manor on horseback in the dead of night and has long, hushed meetings with Lady Victoria and Alex and Ryland in her study.

Patrick isn't a servant to _anyone_ \- especially not Lord Wentz - who, Brendon realizes, must be Lord _Pete_ Wentz, the uncontested king of the Decaydance set, rakehell prince of Angels and Kings, and another friend of Lady Victoria's, though Brendon's never met him. Pete Wentz is the man whose stable boys used to bring Lady Victoria private messages – and something else flashes through Brendon's head when he thinks of that, a memory of pain and someone saying _I knew he had to be in this somewhere_ and – what the hell, thinks Brendon, what the _hell_ is going on?

"Shit," Patrick mutters. Then he takes a step back and settles back into the Martin persona; Brendon can see him do it, the way he hunches his shoulders, tucks his chin in, exaggerates his slouch. "Bit small, aren't you?" he says, light, impersonal, bored. "Got any special skills?"

"I - I'm a musician, sir," says Brendon. He wants to yell, to fling himself at Patrick's feet and beg for help or rescue or _anything_ , but Patrick obviously has something in mind and Brendon doesn't dare.

"A musician, huh," he says. "Any good?"

"I - yes," says Brendon, and reels off the list of instruments he can play. It's second nature, by now; he's done it often enough. Patrick's - Martin's - eyebrows fly up. "Hmph. Pete had better take a look at you. My lord!" he calls. "Sir!"

It takes Wentz a couple of moments to excuse himself from the negotiations and amble over. He leaves his wife behind him still deep in discussion with the master. "What is it, Martin?" he says. "Find something interesting?"

"This one says he's a musician, sir," says Patrick.

"Does he now?" says Wentz. "What does he play?"

They start to discuss him casually, listing his possible features and flaws like he's a horse Wentz might buy. Brendon wonders for a moment if he dreamed that moment of recognition, if Patrick has a long-lost twin or something, before he notices that neither of them is actually meeting the other's eyes while they chat. They're watching each others' hands instead, hands that are moving almost imperceptibly in a flicker of sign and counter-sign.

Brendon's seen the sign language plenty of times before. He noticed Alex and Ryland using it once, and Alex grinned and told him it was for hunting, "So you can talk without talking, Brendon, and don't scare the deer." He even taught Brendon a few of the signs, and Brendon recognizes a couple of them now - _trouble_ and _keep cover_ \- but the rest of what they're saying is a mystery. He's never seen anyone sign so fast and so fluently, not even Alex and Ryland, and he keeps getting distracted by the sounds of their voices talking about something else entirely.

Finally Patrick's hands move in an emphatic _NOW_ , and Wentz nods carelessly. "Ashlee, my love!" he sing-songs over his shoulder. "Come look at what I've found!"

His wife picks her way over to them through the mud and puts her hand on Wentz's arm. "He looks a bit puny to me," she says with a pout. "What's this about?"

"He's a musician, my lady," says Patrick dryly. His hands flicker.

Lady Wentz squeals with sudden delight. "Ooh! I _love_ music! Pete, darling, did I ever tell you how Daddy bought me an orchestra?"

"Many times," says Wentz. "Many, many times. I'm afraid I can't afford an orchestra yet, honeybear, but would you like a pet to sing for you until I can?"

She trills an irritating little laugh and pinches Brendon's cheek. "I'd adore it. Oh, look at him, isn't he cute? You should buy him for me right away, and we can take him home with us tomorrow morning," - both Patrick and Wentz make the urgent _NOW_ signal again -"In fact," Lady Wentz corrects herself without blinking, "I want to take him back to the inn tonight. Look at his big brown _eyes_! He can sing me to sleep, can't he?"

"You heard the lady," says Wentz with a chuckle to the caravan master. "We're taking this one now, and I want you to hold the rest in reserve for me. I'll come back and close the deal tomorrow morning."

"Of course, sir," says the master faintly.

Before Brendon can so much as blink, the guards are being summoned to take him out of the line, and he's being forced back into his clothes and hustled towards Wentz's tasteless carriage. Only when the door's been slammed closed on the four of them and the carriage is in motion, when Lady Wentz has collapsed back into her seat with a tremendous sigh and her husband has unbuttoned the top three buttons on his shirt and pressed a kiss to her temple - only then does Patrick dig around underneath his seat, pull out a hat, jam it firmly over 'Martin's' greasy hair, and turn to Brendon, who's sitting gingerly on the edge of the carriage's velvet-upholstered seat, staring fixedly at the floor, not quite believing this is happening. "God, Brendon," he says, "how in hell did you end up there?"

Brendon shakes his head.

"Well, at least we got you out," says Patrick after a moment. "You can - after you're washed up and rested, you can tell us."

"What's the big problem?" says Lady Wentz.

"I think our new musician was one of Vicky-T's," her husband answers. "Right, Patrick?"

"He recognized me," says Patrick. He claps Brendon on the shoulder but withdraws his hand quickly when Brendon flinches. "Not that I wouldn't have grabbed you out of there _anyway_ , Bren. How long have you been there? What the fuck happened to you?"

Brendon looks down. Lady Victoria vanishing, the auctions, the caravans, the last six months, _everything_ , he doesn't know where to start.

"What's wrong with him?" asks Wentz, and then corrects himself, addressing Brendon. "What's wrong with you?"

"I-" says Brendon. "I don't -"

He's just been rescued - no, he's just been _bought_ \- and he has no idea what's going on.

"Brendon?" Patrick says quietly. "You okay?"

He wants to answer – this is _Patrick_ , Brendon used to think he was a friend – but he's in a strange carriage, rattling through the night, and after so many months of wishing he could find somebody, _any_ familiar face, he can't make any sense of this at all.

"The others." Brendon swallows and takes a deep breath. He wishes Wentz and his wife would stop staring at him like he's a strange, mythical creature they're found in the woods.

"The other who?" Patrick asks.

"You're going to – in the morning?"

"You mean... oh. Yeah, that's the plan. We'll go back in the morning." Patrick exchanges glances with Wentz. "Why?"

Brendon shrugs and looks down at his mud-caked feet. It's warmer in the carriage and than out in the wind, but he's still cold, still trying to hold himself tightly so he doesn't shiver. He doesn't have any friends in the caravan, not really, nobody he's got the right to ask about. Ryan and Spencer didn't even want to talk to him.

"Is the caravan master trustworthy?" Wentz asks suddenly.

Lady Wentz snorts. "I wouldn't trust that slimy man farther than I could throw him," she says. Brendon looks up, surprised. There's no trace of the preening, fluttering mannerisms anymore, and she's still looking at him, her eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

Wentz says, "No, I mean, will he keep his end of the deal and wait until morning?"

It isn't until Patrick touches his shoulder and says, "Will he?" that Brendon realizes Wentz is talking to him.

"I don't know, my lord," he says. He knows it's never a good idea to speak badly of a previous owner, all owners hate that, but he feels a pang of guilt at lying and adds, "I think he'll – he'll do whatever earns him the most money." If he's presented with a better option, Brendon has no doubt the master will break the deal.

Wentz nods like that's the answer he was expecting. "Well," he says to nobody in particular, "we could – "

"No," Lady Wentz says. "We couldn't. It's too dangerous."

"But if we – "

" _No_ ," she says, more firmly. "Not alone. It would never work. We have a _plan_ , Pete."

Wentz looks like he's going to argue, but instead he sits back against the carriage seat and crosses his arms over his chest like a pouting child. "You take all the spontaneity out of our subversive adventures."

"Somebody has to keep you out of trouble," she replies easily.

"Keep me from having _fun_ ," Wentz retorts.

Patrick is smiling a little, watching them bicker, and Brendon is dying to ask what the hell is going on. A year ago, he would have, wouldn't have thought twice about pestering Patrick until he got some answers, but he doesn't know if he's allowed to do that anymore.

Patrick notices him watching, though, and says, "It's a long story, Brendon. Just be patient with us, okay?"

It sounds like a request, not a command. Brendon nods uncertainly.

The carriage slows, and Brendon hears the shout of an ostler outside. Lady Wentz pushes a curtain aside to look out and makes a displeased face. "Do they just sit around all day watching for us?" she asks, clearly annoyed.

"Are you kidding?" Wentz says, laughing. "We're the most excitement this inn has seen in twenty years." He stands up and lurches a little when the carriage stops fully. The door opens, and he leans down and whispers to Brendon, "Sorry about this, kid."

Then he grabs Brendon's arm, pulls him off the seat, and shoves him out the door. Brendon pitches face-forward unto the ground as behind him Wentz bellows, "Martin! Get this filthy brat cleaned up and out of my sight."

Brendon stays on the ground, prone and deferent, and peeks up only enough to see Lord Wentz's boots and Lady Wentz's skirts as they walk toward the inn. Warm yellow light and cheerful noise spill out when the door opens, vanish again when it slams shut.

"Hey." Somebody kneels beside Brendon and puts a hand on his shoulder. "Come on, let's get you inside."

The voice is quiet and kind. Brendon lifts his head first, then pushes himself up and rises to his feet. The man beside him is dressed like a servant and smells faintly of horses; he has dark hair and a beard and a friendly smile.

Patrick is standing a few feet away. "You okay?"

Brendon says shakily, "Yes, sir."

"Fuck, Brendon, it's only – " Patrick shakes his head and sighs. "Okay. Is there someplace he can get cleaned up? Someplace warm?"

The bearded man nods and gestures behind him. "Sure. Just take him through the stable. Tom and I'll get the horses."

Patrick looks around, then lowers his voice and says, "This is a big fucking mess we've got, I hope you -"

The man claps Patrick on the shoulder and interrupts loudly, "Go on inside, Martin. It's a cold night."

It's a lot warmer inside the stable. A pair of oil lamps hang high on posts, filling the room with soft light, and horses stomp their feet in greeting as Brendon and Patrick walk through. There's a room at the back of the stable with two narrow cots shoved against the walls and a barrel set up as a table between them. Another oil lamp hangs from a hook on the wall, and the door rattles in the night wind.

"Wait here," Patrick says.

He unlatches the door and vanishes into the darkness outside. He doesn't shut the door behind him and Brendon thinks, for one wild moment, that there's an open door, he's not chained up, it's dark and the clouds are covering the moon, he could, if he's fast, he _could_ –

Patrick comes back inside carrying a bucket of water. "Here," he says. "It's cold, but you can get cleaned up a little."

Brendon blinks in confusion, and his confusion quickly turns into panic. _He's_ the slave, he should be carrying the water. Patrick shouldn't have to do that even if he's pretending to be a servant, Brendon should have _known_ , and he would have but he's just so tired and hungry and this night is too strange and he can carry water, he _can_ –

"Brendon. _Brendon_." Patrick sets the bucket down with a thump and steps toward him. "Relax, okay? It's just a bucket of water. I can handle it."

"But I -" Brendon bites his lip. "Did I say that out loud?"

Patrick rolls his eyes, but he seems more amused than annoyed. "No, I've learned to read your mind. Now, if you're done talking to yourself, get yourself cleaned up."

"What, you don't like how I smell?" As soon as he says it, Brendon clamps his mouth shut. Before, at Lady Victoria's, he wouldn't think anything of joking with Patrick, but things are different now.

At least, he thinks things are different now. Patrick doesn't react any differently. He only says, "You fucking reek, and you have more mud on you than skin."

"He's right, you know."

Brendon spins around, startled. The bearded man is standing in the doorway, leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed over his chest. But he's smiling still, in a way that makes it seem like his words weren't an insult at all.

"Go on," the man says, nodding at Brendon. "Patrick and I'll leave you alone for a minute."

It's been so long since Brendon's bathed he's not even sure he remembers how. The water is cold and there's no soap, but he does the best he can, stripping off his clothes and shivering as he scrubs the worst of the mud from his skin. He pauses every few seconds to listen, but the man and Patrick are speaking in voices too quiet for him to eavesdrop effectively.

Patrick. The stable boy called him Patrick, not Martin.

Brendon sighs. This night just keeps getting weirder.

He hates to put his disgusting clothes back on, but he doesn't have anything else. He dumps the water out the back door and sets it aside. He thinks about sitting on one of the cots to wait, but the stable boys might get angry to have a slave sitting on their beds. Brendon's thinking about curling up on the floor when Patrick returns, this time with both stable boys behind him.

The fair one looks Brendon over and says curtly, "Sit down before you fall on your ass."

Brendon does as he's told, sits on the side of one cot and watches Patrick. Patrick is frowning, not looking at any of them, obviously thinking about something.

"You're sure?" he asks. "Both passes?"

Both of the stable boys answer, "Yeah."

Patrick shakes his head. "Shit. Why the fuck are all these soldiers out anyway?"

"Who knows? They've been crawling around the countryside for weeks, like fucking ants," the fair one says, laughing a little, but it's not a happy sound. "I don't suppose Pete thought of that before he went and bought an entire caravan, did he? Does he think nobody will _notice_?"

Patrick snorts. "I don't know what the hell Pete thinks. And there's no - well, one of you has to go warn them. Leave tonight and you can get there in plenty of time to meet Eric at the border, and we just have to hope nobody's dumb enough to walk right into a fucking ambush."

"I'll do it," the bearded one says. He grins. "I ride faster than Tom anyway."

The other stable boy – Tom – makes a face but doesn't argue. "In your dreams, asshole. But, should we be..." He gives Brendon a significant glance, then looks back at Patrick with eyebrows raised in question. "You haven't introduced us to your friend."

"Oh. Right." Patrick gestures vaguely. "This is Brendon. He used to be Victoria's. Brendon, this is Tom, Jon."

"Nice to meet you," Tom says. He doesn't sound particularly friendly, but he doesn't sound like he's talking to a slave either, and Brendon doesn't know how to respond. To Patrick, Tom adds, "What the hell are we supposed to do with him?"

"Just, uh... Well. I don't know," Patrick says, scowling. "God, I don't know. This wasn't part of the fucking plan either. But I wasn't going to _leave_ him there." Patrick sounds angry, angry like Brendon's never heard him before, but there's something else in his words, in the way he's watching Brendon. "I guess we'll just keep playing the game," Patrick says finally. "Go inside and sing a fucking song for the lady of the manor. Can you do that, Bren?"

Brendon means to say yes, yes, of _course_ he can, he'll do whatever he's told, but somehow he blurts out instead, "You're _asking_ me?"

"Fuck," Patrick says, with feeling. "Yes, Brendon, I'm _asking_ – "

"Hey," the bearded stable boy – Jon, this one is Jon – interrupts smoothly. "I have an idea. He can come with me."

"I think somebody will notice if Lord Wentz's brand new purchase goes missing," Patrick says dryly.

"Pete will make something up," Jon replies easily. "He's good at that. And it'll be safer, in case something does happen. Pete will have his hands full tomorrow morning anyway."

Patrick starts nodding slowly. "That might be better. Brendon, listen, I think Jon's right. You should go with him tonight. Things might get – well, who the fuck knows, maybe nothing will happen, but just in case. Jon can get you to safety. We need a new plan anyway. A hundred and seventy fucking slaves, god, Pete, what the hell..." He turns and walks away, still muttering to himself, and after a second Tom rolls his eyes and follows.

Brendon clears his throat. "Um, sir?"

"Don't call me 'sir,'" Jon says. There's a sharp edge in his voice, and Brendon slumps a little. "Call me Jon," he says, more gently. "I'm going to call you Brendon. It's only fair."

 _Fair_ , Brendon thinks. The word echoes strange and unfamiliar in his mind. Nobody cares about being fair to a slave.

"What is it?" Jon asks.

"I have no idea what's going on," Brendon admits.

Jon looks surprised. "Patrick didn't tell you?"

Brendon shakes his head. "He bought me. I mean, Lord Wentz did, and we came here. That's all."

Jon stares at him for a moment, then rubs a hand over his beard and laughs a little. "Fuck. Well, um, this is gonna take a while to explain. We're leaving in half an hour or so. You mind if I tell you while we're riding?"

"No," Brendon says. Then: "Riding? Where are we going?"

[Chapter Two](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/1051.html)


	2. But Not the Song (1/17)

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**But Not the Song (1/17)**   
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[Story Index and Warnings](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/446.html)

[Prologue](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/552.html)

  
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**i.**   
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_March._

Business at the slave market is slow.

It's been drizzling since dawn and there's a bitter wind across the plains, buffeting the lines of shivering slaves and slicing through Brendon's threadbare clothes. He tries to keep still, mindful of the way the slaves around him hiss and glare when he fidgets, but he aches all over from the cold, and his nose is running and his feet are freezing into the mud, and the merchant walking slowly along the lines is taking too fucking long.

The merchant is the only potential buyer who's stopped for more than a minute all day. He's dressed in fine but outdated clothes, and his boots need polishing. He carries a riding crop, snapping it smartly at slaves' legs and backsides and smirking when they jump to attention. The caravan master follows him like an eager dog, barely able to hide his excitement. Brendon has only been in the caravan for a few days, bought with a handful of others at another market, but he knows it's been longer than that since the master last made a good sale.

The merchant stops and taps his riding crop against the side of his leg. Without looking at the master, he says, "I was hoping to find something a bit more refined. I am not interested in ordinary beasts."

Behind his back, the caravan master makes a face, but when the merchant turns he schools it quickly into proper obsequiousness. "Times are hard, good sir," he says, "but I do have some property with special skills, if you would care to consider it."

The merchant gestures carelessly. "Very well," he says with a bored sigh. "Show me your treats."

They walk along the line again, stopping only to discuss those slaves the master claims to have unique talents. The slaves around Brendon shy away subtly, trying to distance themselves from him without being obvious about it. Brendon wants to watch the master and the buyer, to keep an eye on them, but he knows it will only lead to trouble. He clasps his hands behind his back and bows his head, stares at the shackle around his ankle and doesn't move when the merchant's unpolished boots come into view.

"Musician, sir," the master says. "Very accomplished. He's performed for many great families in the city, to the envy of all."

The merchant snorts in disbelief. "This wretch? I find that hard to believe."

"I would never lie to you, sir," the caravan master lies smoothly.

Brendon's expecting it, but he still jumps at the sting of the crop against the back of his legs. The merchant lodges the handle of the whip under his chin and forces him to look up. Brendon meets his eyes for the briefest moment then drops his gaze, and he doesn't flinch when the man grabs his chin and tilts his head from side to side. The merchant's hands are clammy and his breath stinks, and this close Brendon can see the stains on his once-fine shirt, the fraying edges on his cuffs and loosening seams on his shoulders.

The man lets him go. "A plaything for a pampered female," he says dismissively. "I have no use for such a creature."

Brendon hides a sigh of relief as the man walks away.

"Of course not, sir." The caravan master hurries after the merchant. He hesitates a moment, then leans closer and lowers his voice conspiratorially. "If I may be so bold, sir, may I inquire as to whether you have interest in, shall we say, a plaything more suited to gentlemanly pursuits?"

The merchant taps his riding crop against his leg. "I have been known to indulge from time to time."

The master's eyes light up. He snaps his fingers at one of the mercenary guards. "You heard the gentleman," he says sharply. "Bring the pretty bird, and quickly."

The guard hurries away. A minute later he returns with another slave, a boy about Brendon's age, rail-thin and naked except for the leather collar around his neck and the shackle around his ankle. There are jangling bracelets around his wrists and hoops in his ears, and his face is painted with the intricate, colorful designs Brendon's only seen before on courtesans in wealthy houses. It makes him look wild and exotic, too bright for a dull, dirty caravan in the freezing rain. The guard gives him a shove and the boy stumbles, but he does not fall. He stands upright, his back and shoulders straight, his head held high and his expression almost haughty as he looks down his nose at the merchant.

"Well, well," the merchant says, a slow smile curling his lips. "What have we here?"

"He is very well-trained," the caravan master says. His eyes flick away from the merchant just long enough to glare at the collared slave. Even from several feet away Brendon can see the threat in that brief look. "I daresay there is no favor you will find too... _unusual_."

"I see," the merchant says. He walks in a circle around the slave, looking him up and down with deliberate slowness. The boy doesn't move; the only sign that he's aware of the merchant is the twitching of his muscles where the man touches the riding crop to his skin. "He's a little bony for my tastes," the man says.

"Food is scarce, sir," the master says apologetically.

The merchant makes a noncommittal noise in his throat and stops behind the boy. He drags the riding crop along the inside of the boy's thigh, over the crack of his ass and up the line of his spine. The boy still doesn't move, but something about his posture changes and Brendon can see his knees shaking slightly. He should look away. He hates watching bedslaves being sold. He hates the sick hunger on the merchant's face, the litany of _thank god it's not me, thank god it's not me_ running through his mind and the mind of every other slave in the caravan. But there's a unnatural hush over the afternoon, as though even the wind and rain are holding their breath, waiting for the merchant to speak or the boy to react, and Brendon hates himself for staring but he can't stop.

The merchant steps around to the boy's front again, still touching him only with the tip of the crop, the leather pressed into his collarbone.

"Open your mouth for me, pretty," the merchant says, his voice low, almost purring. "I want to see how much cock you can handle."

The boy's lips are pressed together in a straight line.

"Now," the merchant says sharply.

The boy doesn't respond. He's staring at a point over the merchant's shoulder, his face completely blank, his eyes empty.

The caravan master starts to say something, but the merchant moves quickly. He grabs the boy's chin so tight the boy's lips part with a startled gasp, and the merchant smiles. The boy's eyes narrow and he jerks his chin free of the man's grasp, snakes his head down and bites the man's hand, _hard_.

 _Holy shit,_ Brendon thinks. A murmur rises from the slaves all around, and angry muttering from the guards. _Holy shit._

The merchant lets out a howl of pain and pulls his hand free - it takes a tug, a grunt of pain, the boy is really fucking _biting_ him - and the man lashes out, hits the boy hard enough to knock him backwards, into a guard. The guard doesn't catch the boy but shoves him again, pushes him to his knees and grabs the his hair so hard his head jerks back.

"What the hell are you doing?" the merchant screams, clutching one hand in the other. "You filthy little whore, I ought to – " He takes two long steps forward, but the caravan master intercepts him. "Get out of my way, you fucking weasel, or bring me a knife so I can put down that fucking animal myself."

The master is babbling apologies and promises and soothing nonsense, steering the merchant away from the kneeling slave. But the merchant ignores the master's pleas to reconsider, turns on his heel and strides back to where his horse is waiting. Moments later he's riding away, leaving the caravan behind.

The murmuring amongst the slaves stops abruptly when the master returns. His expression is murderous, and his voice is shaking when he stands over the kneeling boy and says, "Do you think this is fucking _funny_ , you worthless bitch?"

The boy twists his head just enough to loosen the guard's grip in his hair. He looks up at the master for a long moment, then turns his head deliberately and spits on the ground. "He tasted like shit," he says. There's no emotion at all in his voice.

The guard jerks the boy by his hair again, pulling so hard his knees lift off the ground. The master steps forward and raises his hand; he makes as though to strike the boy but stops with his hand just beside his cheek. He touches him gently instead, a parody of a caress, and says quietly, "You know what happens when you're disobedient, princess."

"Let us remind him what he's here for," a guard says.

"Fuck him till he behaves," another adds, and several of them laugh. "He ain't as pretty as a girl but he'll do."

"I'm not running a fucking free brothel," the master snaps. He drops his hand to his side and steps back. "But I might make an exception."

The boy watches him expressionlessly.

"Here," the master says. He holds out his hand without turning, and a guard places a bullwhip in his palm. He lets it uncoil; the slithering length falls to the ground. "I really fucking hate to mark up such expensive merchandise," he says, his voice dripping with mock regret. "All that pretty smooth skin. It's such a shame."

The boy stares, unblinking, and still does not react.

The master snaps his fingers at a nearby guard. "Bring the whore's pet dog. Nobody but him gives a fuck if that stupid piece of shit's beaten bloody."

" _No!_ " The word rips out of the boy's throat, and his blank mask drops away. He struggling and flailing his arms and trying to pull free even though it must hurt like hell. "No! Don't – it was me, don't, _please_ – "

The master throws back his head and laughs. "So that's what it takes to get you to beg?"

The guard comes back, dragging another slave behind him. He's a taller boy, with a round face smudged with dirt and the wiry muscles of somebody who's been doing labor all his life. The guard is walking so fast the boy can barely stay upright, and he throws the boy to the ground at the master's feet when he reaches him. The boy doesn't try to stand or even look up. His hair falls over his face and his shoulders are shaking but he doesn't make a sound.

" _No_ ," the other boy says again. He's gone pale under his paint and he's still fighting against the guard, but his voice is quieter and he's looking at his friend now, not the master. "It was me, it wasn't – it was me."

The master looks down at the two of them. "Isn't that sweet," he drawls. "Maybe I should offer you up as a pair. I bet you can teach your boy to suck cock real pretty when he's taking it up the ass."

The boy snarls and lunges forward again, only to be snapped back again by the guard's fist in his hair. The master jerks his chin at the other boy and says, "Get him up. Over there, get some fucking rope." To the boy with the painted face he says, "If you don't shut the fuck up, I'll let the men do whatever the fuck they want to you, and your boyfriend too."

Two guards drag the other boy to his feet and over to the nearest wagon. Brendon stumbles out of the way with the other slaves, tripping over the chains binding their feet and dodging the guards' boots. The men pull the boy's shirt over his head and loop a rope around his wrists, lash it to the side of the wagon so that his face is pressed against the rough wood and he's held up by his arms at just the height where he can neither stand nor kneel. There is already a patchwork of scars on his back, overlapping lines that look like they've been collected over years.

The master cracks the whip several feet away, and the boy tenses but doesn't make a sound. "It's okay if you scream, sweetheart," the master says. "Maybe if you're loud enough, your little bitch boyfriend will behave next time."

The boy doesn't scream, but Brendon is close enough that he can hear the soft, stifled whimper after every lash. He holds his breath and counts silently; the master goes to twenty-five before he lowers his arm to his side, panting slightly. The boy's back is slashed crimson, the wounds bleeding freely, blood soaking into the waistband of his trousers.

The master takes a minute to curl the whip into a coil. He examines the blood on his fingers, then points with the coil at the painted boy, still on his knees and staring, wide-eyed and silent. "Put that one in the cage," he says.

The guard hauls the boy his feet; the cheap bracelets on the boy's wrists jangle softly.

"What about the other one?" a second guard asks. He glances at the whipped boy with an expression of distaste that turns into an amused smirk when the boy jerks suddenly, kicking his feet out and trying to find a footing to stand.

"Leave him there," says the master. He looks down and spits on the boy, then turns away. "If he can't walk, drag him. We've got to get the fuck out of here. Fucking wasted day."

The guards go along the lines, shouting and dragging the slaves into place. It's slow, moving the entire caravan when the slaves are bound, but the guards don't risk untying anybody until they're a couple of miles outside of town and ready to set up camp for the night. Brendon is one of the first they untie. They probably think he's too young or too stupid to make trouble; he doesn't know which it is, but he's not doing anything to change their minds. He rubs at where his ankle is chafed raw and finds a place to sit down, near the edge of the group but not so far from the other slaves that he's exposed to the full force of the wind.

The guards have circled the wagons around the camp like they do every night. To his right Brendon can see the boy who was whipped still tied up, the rope still too short to let him sit or even kneel. To Brendon's left is what the master jokingly calls the "behave-yourself" wagon: it's nothing more than a cage mounted on wheels, open to the elements and pulled along by a sullen mule. The other boy is in that one, still naked and huddled in a corner against the iron bars. Brendon can't see his face clearly in the twilight, but he knows, he _knows_ the boy is staring across the camp at his friend.

"Dinner."

Brendon jumps, startled. "Oh." It's only a tiny hunk of bread, a couple of bites, but Brendon says, "Thank you."

The mercenary guard handing out the bread is the only one Brendon knows by name, because he's the only one who bothers to speak to the slaves directly. His name is Zack and his arms and neck are covered with dozens of gladiator tattoos. Brendon heard the other guards talking: Zack is relatively new to the caravan, but it's rare for a gladiator to live long enough to become a freedman and the other guards regard him with a wary respect. Brendon's glad Zack's one of the decent ones, the kind who keeps the others in line and stops them from hurting the slaves too much.

He takes a bite of his bread and goes back to watching. The boy in the cage hasn't moved. He could be a statue, cold and lifeless in the rapidly fading light.

"His name's Ryan," Zack says. "Ross. He's got a proper surname like a free man, and he never lets anyone forget it."

Brendon starts again and glances around nervously. He doesn't know why Zack is talking to him – maybe because he's the last mouth to feed, maybe Zack is just bored – and he doesn't know what to say, so he says, "Oh."

"Gets into trouble every fucking day of the week and twice on Sunday." Zack doesn't sound like he thinks it's funny, like the other guards do. "That shit he pulled today, that's typical."

Brendon says, "Oh."

"They say he was freeborn, captured in a fucking border raid or some shit," Zack goes on. "Who the fuck knows."

Brendon fidgets a little, pulling the bread apart in his hands, but he has to ask, "Why are you telling me this?" He didn't ask for gossip. He knows that you don't ask, and you definitely don't ask the guards. "I don't want to know," he says. It's a lie, but it's the lie he's supposed to tell.

"You're new," says Zack, "and maybe I'm wrong, but I get the impression you haven't spent much time dragging around in the caravans. Not a fancy toy like you."

Brendon doesn't look at Zack when he says, "Long enough."

Half a year. Half a year since Lady Victoria vanished and Brendon, along with all her other property, was confiscated by the crown and sold at auction for a fraction of what he should have been worth. Six long months that feel like six years, being bought and sold by progressively cheaper and meaner caravan masters. The winter was too hard and too many people are dying from plague. Nobody's looking to buy a trained pet to sit at the piano and show off to their friends, especially not one too small to be much use for real work. But Brendon knows six months is nothing. There are old men in the caravan, stooped and toothless and half-blind, who have been traded at cheap markets along the roads for their entire lives.

Zack says, "You seem like a smart enough kid, and maybe you know how to stay out of trouble. Once summer comes, people will be willing to spend a little more. Somebody'll snatch you up. Keep your head down and you'll be fine."

"I don't make trouble," Brendon tells him.

"Well," Zack says, neither believing nor disbelieving. "Just in case you get ideas, you should know, that's what trouble gets you." He nods toward the behave-yourself wagon.

Brendon looks at the boy in the cage – _Ryan_ , he thinks, _he has a name_ – then turns around slowly and looks across to the other side of the camp, to the boy still tied to the wagon. "That too?"

Zack makes a noise in his throat, short and angry. "That too. That kid – says his name's Spencer when he bothers to talk at all, who the fuck knows if that's true – used to belong to Ross's family. They've known each other forever, pull all kinds of stupid shit to avoid getting split up." Zack snorts, almost like a laugh. "Fucking lot of good it's done them. They'll end up in the silver mines if the old bastard can't get back what he paid, and chances of that are pretty fucking slim." He glances around, sees that no other guards are nearby, and deliberately spits on the ground. "You got friends around here, kid, don't let anyone see it."

Brendon chews the last bite of bread slowly. "I don't," he says quietly. "Not like that."

"Good," Zack says gruffly. He looks up and scowls, like he's surprised to find himself gossiping with one of the slaves. "Look, it's the warning I give all the kids. It doesn't mean shit."

"Thank you," says Brendon sincerely.

Zack shakes his head. "You're a strange one." He starts to walk away.

"Are you – " Brendon bites his lip when Zack looks back at him. "Are you going to leave him there all night?" he asks in a rush, before he can lose his nerve. "He can't even – the way he's tied up, he can't even sit down."

Zack stares at him. Brendon shrinks back a little, curling his shoulders inward. But Zack only shakes his head and turns away again. "That's exactly what I'm talking about," he says. "Trouble."

But about half an hour later, when the chores are done and most of the guards are gathered around the master's fire, Brendon sees Zack cross the camp to where the boy – Spencer – is tied up. Zack unties the ropes and helps the boy to his feet, looks around to makes sure nobody is watching before helping the boy into his shirt again. Then he presses a bundle of something into the boy's hands – clothes, Brendon thinks, maybe food and water too – and says something. The boy doesn't answer or even look up, but as Zack walks away, he makes a beeline across the camp. He's unsteady on his feet, wincing with every step, but he doesn't stop until he's at the behave-yourself wagon, stumbling and catching himself on the bars.

As Brendon watches, Ryan crawls over and presses their foreheads together through the bars. He's still naked. Spencer whispers something to him, but Ryan shakes his head hard; Spencer looks down, grimaces, and shoves the bundle Zack gave him through the bars, then the piece of bread. Ryan hesitates before he starts to get dressed. Brendon can't hear them, but he feels like he should look away, like he's watching something nobody else is meant to see.

Brendon waits, trying not to stare, until Zack walks by him again in his circuit around the camp. "Do you have bandages?" he asks.

Zack stops short. "What?"

"Bandages. You know, for." Brendon gestures vaguely.

Zack raises an eyebrow. "They won't let you near them."

It's not a _no_ , so Brendon says, "Can I try?"

"It'll only get you into trouble."

Brendon looks over at the behave-yourself wagon again. Ryan tears the small chunk of bread carefully in two and passes half to Spencer, who's got his forehead pressed to the bars, eyes closed. Through Spencer's thin shirt Brendon can see his shoulders crisscrossed with red marks. Some of them are still bleeding; there are stains on his shirt.

They're the bravest thing he's ever seen.

"I want to try," he says.

Zack frowns. "Don't let the bastard associate you with them. If he does, you're fucking done for."

Brendon looks up at him. "Please," he says.

"Fuck." Zack shakes his head. "It's your funeral. They'll hate you anyway."

But he wanders away, toward the wagon where they keep the extra supplies. When he comes back he presses a roll of bandages into Brendon's hands and mutters, “Don't forget to wash the cuts first.”

Ex-gladiators know that kind of thing, Brendon thinks. He starts to say, “Thank you,” again but Zack's already walking away.

The ground is muddy from the rain, and Brendon's bare feet squelch noisily as he approaches the behave-yourself wagon. Ryan and Spencer hear him and look up at the exact same time. Brendon stops.

"I have bandages," he says. He holds up the cloth for them to see. When they don't reply, he steps closer. It's barely a movement at all, but Spencer's hands tighten on the bars of the cage. "Just bandages," Brendon says. "That's all." He immediately feels stupid. They're not idiots. They can understand him just fine.

Ryan stops eating and glances at Spencer.

"What do you want?" Spencer asks. His voice is rough and low.

Brendon takes another step. "Nothing. Just, you're bleeding."

Another step, and another. Brendon thinks about the time Alex took him into the mountains to find a lost horse. They never found it, but they did find a pack of wolves: silent, shadowy creatures lurking in the twilight as they rode back to Lady Victoria's estate. He remembers Alex speaking in a soft, steady voice, telling stories just to have something to say, and he remembers wondering childishly if the wolves never attacked because they were afraid of Alex's voice or because they wanted to hear how the stories ended.

Brendon thinks it's a good sign that Spencer hasn't tried to bite him yet. "Can I – will you let me?"

Ryan says, "The master will see you."

Brendon looks over his shoulder. The master is enjoying his food and wine by a fire at the other end of the caravan, and most of the guards are with him. "It's okay," he says. "Nobody's watching. I can just –"

He starts forward, but the wagon rocks as Ryan scrambles across the cage. "Don't," he says, sharp and commanding. Definitely freeborn, Brendon thinks. No slave learns to speak like that. "Don't touch him." Ryan sticks his hand through the bars. "Give them to me."

Brendon puts the bandages in Ryan's hand and steps back. He watches Ryan unroll the cloth with trembling hands, glancing warily toward the caravan master's fire as though he expects the man to come roaring at them at any moment.

Spencer glances at campfire again, then locks eyes with Ryan. Some silent communication flickers between them - Brendon can't read it, their faces barely move - and then something that might be an attempt at a bitter smile flashes across Spencer's face. He stands up straight and pulls off his shirt in one quick motion, a gasp of pain hissing between his teeth. Brendon stares; he's never seen the aftermath of a whipping this close before. Lady Victoria never whipped anyone. The dried blood from the deeper cuts has soaked into Spencer's shirt, and there are bits of cloth stuck to his back. Some of the wounds are bleeding sluggishly again. Ryan makes a tiny, tiny noise, and his hands shake harder. He can barely keep hold of the bandages.

"It's nothing," says Spencer. It's the biggest lie Brendon's heard in a while. "Just - cover up the worst ones, okay?"

"Spencer," says Ryan, without expression.

"I said it's _nothing_."

Brendon finally manages to make his voice work. "You ought to -" he begins, and stops as both of them glare at him. Ryan's expression says _why are you still here?_ , clear as daylight. Spencer doesn't really have an expression at all. "You ought to - water," he manages to say. "Wash them out. It'll be worse, if they get infected, or. Or he does it again."

Neither one answers, but Ryan picks up the jug of water Spencer brought him earlier. "No," says Spencer. "That's for you. You _drink_ it, idiot."

"Shut up," says Ryan. "Show me your back."

"No."

"I'll get more," says Brendon. "Zack likes me. I can get more."

Spencer and Ryan don't look at him, but after a moment Spencer nods in his general direction. Brendon sets off through the mud, and he doesn't see Ryan reach through the bars to pour his water over Spencer's back, but he hears Spencer's hiss of pain.

Zack is standing with some of the other mercenaries at the edge of the camp, watching over the huddled, sleeping slaves. The guards are talking and laughing, and Brendon stops several feet away, uncertain. Most of the slaves are still chained together, but there are a few, like Brendon, who are well-behaved and never try to run – who won't make it very far anyway if they do, is the joke.

It's probably true. Brendon doesn't know the land they're traveling through. They've been heading south steadily for weeks, a long meandering circuit of the provinces before the caravan reaches the city. Here there's nothing but flat, featureless grassland on either side of the road, open skies and unending wind, no landmarks to follow. The road snakes along a long, wide valley towards the rocks and scrubby trees of the mountain passes. There's no place to hide, and the city and its enormous open slave markets are only a few weeks' journey from here. They'll probably be there for summer, swinging through one more province before they stop for a month or so on the stinking edge of the market quarter.

Brendon remembers, or thinks he remembers, that one of the provinces on the far side of the mountains is the one that outlawed slave caravans some years ago. Lady Victoria had been very excited about it for some reason. He guesses they won't be going there.

Being free to move around the caravan doesn't mean he can walk up to the guards and demand water. He stands to the side and hugs himself against the cold wind and waits. Zack finally looks his way, speaks to the other guards for a few more minutes, then wanders over to Brendon. "They chase you away?"

Brendon glances back at the wagon. He can't see much more than the silhouette in the darkness. "Can I have some water, please?" he asks.

Zack stares down at him, and for a moment Brendon is scared he'll say no, maybe even laugh and kick Brendon away like the other men do when slaves ask for water. But Zack exhales sharply and shakes his head. "You gotta be careful, kid," he says, and he wanders away again. A few seconds later he's back with a small jug in hand. He shoves it at Brendon and says, "Don't get used to it."

"Thank you," Brendon says quietly, and he runs back to the wagon.

Ryan is whispering fervently to Spencer through the bars of the cage, but he hasn't done anything with the bandages yet. They both look up when Brendon approaches – it's a little eerie how they do that – and it's obvious from their expressions they didn't expect Brendon to come back at all.

"I brought more water," he says. He doesn't take his time stepping up to the cage now, just sets the jug carefully inside the bars and doesn't move away. "Not a lot, but it's – do you need help?"

"No," Ryan says, too quickly. He doesn't say _go away now_ , but it's clear anyway.

"Because I can..." Brendon hesitates. "I can help," he says. "I'm good at patching up wounds." It's a bit of an exaggeration; he's done it once before. A man had turned up one night, staggering to the kitchen door, saying he was a friend of Alex's and he'd been attacked by wolves: Alex had recognized him, anyway, and jumped to his feet, exclaiming at the blood on his shirt. And at least Brendon's calm enough to hold the bandages without dropping them, which is more than Ryan can say.

Spencer says, "We don't need your help."

"Okay," Brendon says. "Okay. Then I'll just... okay."

He doesn't back away. He watches Ryan press the strips of cloth against Spencer's back. There aren't enough bandages to do a proper job of it, and Ryan's hands are so unsteady Brendon's surprised he can hold them at all. When Spencer's entire body goes tense, Ryan murmurs something that sounds like, " _Sorry, sorry_ ," and jerks his hands away, fumbling the bandages and almost dropping them in the mud. "Sorry," Ryan says again, his voice cracking on the word.

"Ry..."

Ryan takes a slow breath and, without turning his head, holds out the bandages for Brendon to take. He doesn't say anything, no _please_ , no _can you...?_ He doesn't even look at Brendon.

Brendon steps forward quickly. "Yeah," he says. "Hold still, okay?"

Spencer makes a sound that's almost a laugh. "I'm not going anywhere."

Brendon does the best he can, trying to look competent and serious and kind - but not pitying, he knows instinctively neither of them will forgive him if they think he feels sorry for them. Spencer is shivering a little in the sharp evening breeze, and his skin under Brendon's hands is chilled and damp. Ryan wraps both his hands around the cage's bars so tightly his knuckles go white, and he watches every movement of Brendon's fingers like a hawk.

"There," says Brendon when he's done. "There, that's it."

Spencer pulls away and shrugs his shoulders carefully, testing the pain. "Okay," he says. There's dead silence for a moment.

"I'll just go, then," says Brendon.

"Good idea," says Ryan, and there's an unpleasant lilt in his voice, the sneering sound only free people ever use.

Brendon bristles. He's had masters who talked to him like that, sometimes, when they were angry, and he's met slaves with masters who sounded that way the whole time - but Ryan's no one's master. Ryan's not any better than he is, not now, and Brendon just _helped_ them. "You ought to be more careful," he says. "Most people aren't as nice as me."

" _Ought?_ " repeats Ryan, and his head comes up, chin held at an arrogant tilt. Brendon can see why the caravan master hates him, he's all hard lines and defiant angles behind the cage bars, all unquenchable pride. "We don't need nice. We don't need _anything_. Who do you think you are anyway, slave boy?"

And that's _it_. "A survivor," retorts Brendon with a lot more confidence than he actually feels. " _Slave boy._ "

Ryan's mouth twists in fury, but "Ryan," says Spencer. Ryan turns his glare on him momentarily before his eyes fall on the bandages and he slumps again, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing the side of his face into the cage bars like it's a wall, like he can hide. Spencer reaches through and wraps a hand around his wrist. "What's your name?" he says.

It takes Brendon a moment to realize Spencer means _him_. "Brendon," he says.

"Brendon," says Spencer. "Thanks."

Brendon says, "You're welcome," as evenly as he can. Then he turns and walks away, finds a spot to curl up with the other slaves. The rain clouds are clearing, and Brendon watches falling stars until he slips into sleep.

In the morning one of the carts breaks an axle when it gets stuck in the mud, and the caravan master surveys his slaves with a small smile on his face. A few men will stay behind to fix it, but the master doesn't want to waste any time.

"I suppose we'll have to carry the goods," he says.

A few slaves lower their heads, shuffle their feet, but most of them don't react. They know better.

Brendon can guess what the master's going to do even before he starts pointing and calling out. The man points to a man with a sprained ankle, a woman with a broken arm, a couple of guys with black eyes so swollen they can barely see. And Spencer, of course. The master thinks it's funny to give the heavy labor to injured slaves, to spend the day shouting at them for their laziness while they struggle under the weight of food they'll never get to eat.

When the caravan starts moving again, with agonizing slowness through the sticky mud, Brendon hangs back a little. He doesn't make a big deal of it, not so anyone will notice, just walks a little slower until he's beside the mangy mule pulling the behave-yourself wagon. The wind is sharper, colder without all the trudging people around him, but he puts his hand on the mule's warm back and hums to himself a little. It's the fox and swan song, the one that's been in his head for days. He misses being able to sing as loud as he wants to.

"What are you doing?"

Brendon shrugs but doesn't look at Ryan. "Just walking," he says.

"You should walk somewhere else."

"I like walking here." Brendon glances over his shoulder.

Ryan's voice sounds hoarse, like he's growing ill, and he's curled into the corner of the cage, trying to make himself as small as possible. But his eyes are wide and alert, and he's watching Brendon warily.

"I heard the guards talking," Brendon says. "Earlier, I mean, they were talking about where we're going." What actually happened was that Brendon asked Zack where the caravan was headed and Zack answered, simple as that, but Brendon isn't about to tell Ryan he talks to one of the guards so easily, not even Zack. "There's a market. I guess we'll be there by night. Lots of people have been sick and they need slaves to work the farms."

Ryan says, "Why are you telling me this?" His voice is flat and it's barely a question at all.

Brendon's telling him mostly because he wants somebody to talk to besides the mule, but he's not about to admit that. "You might want to be careful not to bite anyone this time," he says. "It'll be hard for Spencer's back to heal if the master punishes – "

" _Shut up,_ " Ryan snarls. He unfolds himself like he wants to lunge at Brendon but remembers the bars of the cage and stops. "You shut _up_. You don't know what the fuck you're talking about. You don't know _anything._ "

Brendon wonders that the bars of the cage aren't rattling from the force of Ryan's fury, but the wind is sharp and the morning sun is bright, and Ryan is too thin and too small and too scared, the rusty locks on the cage too strong.

Brendon's throat is dry; he swallows uncomfortably and looks at the mule, pretending interest in the tuft of hair between its ears. "Yeah," he says. "I don't know anything."

He starts humming again. A different song, a funny, naughty song he learned when he was seventeen, sitting in the kitchen at Lady Victoria's and singing along with Alex and Ryland and the two gardeners and the housekeeper and the stable boy and almost forgetting he was the only slave in the room. He hums it slow and quiet and doesn't think about the words.

They walk in silence for a long time. The guards are shouting up ahead, but it's just their ordinary noise, keeping slaves in line and the caravan moving forward. Brendon isn't expecting it when Ryan speaks again.

"He's supposed to be free."

Brendon's step falters. "Who?" he asks, though he already knows. He wonders if Zack got the story wrong, if Spencer was freeborn too.

"I was going to..." Ryan trails off. Brendon doesn't look at him, afraid if he does Ryan won't go on. "I was waiting for my father to die, so I could set him free."

Brendon doesn't say anything.

"What are you singing?"

Surprised, Brendon twists to look at Ryan. "Oh. Nothing, really. Just an old song."

Ryan doesn't say anything more.

Brendon doesn't try to talk to Ryan for the rest of the morning. The caravan doesn't stop to eat at noon, though some of the guards move quietly through the lines of shuffling slaves handing out hunks of stale bread. Zack stops beside Brendon and looks meaningfully at his hand on the mule's back, and Brendon does his best confused face back, the one that made Lady Victoria giggle. Zack shakes his head and gives Brendon extra bread.

"He likes you," says Ryan from the cage.

"Zack's all right," says Brendon, waiting until no one is looking before he casually pushes his spare bread through the cage bars. "Don't let them see you have that."

"I don't want it."

They go on in silence for a moment. Brendon's feet are starting to hurt, and he thinks he's a little bit jealous of Ryan who at least doesn't have to walk. "You're being stupid, you know," he says at last. "You'll just die."

"I don't care."

Brendon turns to look at him. He's honestly surprised, though he probably shouldn't be. It's never occurred to him that you can do that, that you can just not care, that you can just -

Ryan has traces of the paint from yesterday still smeared across his cheekbones. His eyes are hard. "You're giving up?" says Brendon.

" _You've_ given up," Ryan answers.

Brendon shakes his head. "What about him? About Spencer? Don't you -"

"Shut _up_."

Brendon looks over his shoulder to the back of the caravan, where the wounded slaves are stumbling along. Most of the guards are back there too, now, jeering. It looks like some of them are taking bets. Zack's hanging back, watching closely, ready to go in if things get nasty. Brendon can't see Spencer. He thinks about the bandages again, how cold Spencer's skin was.

"You're being stupid," he says again. "You have to get out of the caravan. No one's got any chance here."

"No one's got any chance anywhere," says Ryan. He pauses for a long moment, and then starts speaking again, more unsteady. "I. I - if I behave. They've got no reason to keep us together."

"Sure," says Brendon. "And if you die, they've got no reason to keep him alive."

"Spencer's smart," Ryan says. "He works hard. He's worth... They won't waste..." His voice fades as he looks away.

Brendon doesn't remind him that the master hates them, that everybody in the caravan thinks both Ryan and Spencer are headed for the silver mines already. Instead he says, "You should eat."

Ryan glares at him for a second, then picks up the stale chunk of bread. They don't speak for the rest of the day.

There are farms and fields around them now, and the road is wider and well-worn. It's early spring and there should be men in the fields, turning over the earth for planting, but most are empty, and there is no smoke rising from many of the houses. The people they do see watch them pass with flat, suspicious eyes. A few kids are playing in the dirt beside the road, but instead of jeering and chasing the slaves like children normally do, they watch silently as the caravan passes.

"Plague," Ryan says.

The sound of his voice startles Brendon. "Yeah," he says. He knows the signs. He's seen them often enough, this winter.

The caravan stops to make camp before nightfall. Brendon guesses they aren't far from a village, and a cold knot of fear forms in his stomach. The caravan is bad – he's exhausted from walking so many miles, his feet ache and he's always hungry – but a slave market is always, always worse. To be stripped naked and shackled to the others in a ragged, shivering line while the buyers poke and prod and laugh like it's a social event, to watch the other slaves' faces go blank with fear when they're pulled out of the line, to try to keep from shrinking in on himself and hiding when he catches a buyer's attention – it's so, so much worse.

The guards begin moving among the slaves, sorting them into groups and rattling the chains as they shackle them together. It's not Zack who comes to drag Brendon into the line, and Brendon does his best not to flinch when the man grabs his upper arm.

"Over there," the guard says, giving him a hard shove toward a group of relatively healthy men and boys. "Don't be difficult."

Brendon isn't. He knows how to behave.

When he's a safe distance away he glances back. The guard drags the handle of his whip along the bars of the cage and grins when Ryan shrinks away from him.

"I don't think you have anything to worry about tonight, princess," the guard says with a laugh. "Folks around here are looking for men to plow the fields, not pretty birds useless for everything but fucking. But you never know. We might get lucky."

He hits the bars of the cage one more time, and Ryan doesn't really react, not in any noticeable way, but Brendon _knows_ he's about to say something, or spit on the guard, or _worse_. He whispers under his breath, "God, Ryan, _don't_."

There's no way Ryan can hear him, but he looks over quickly and catches Brendon's eye for a second. And he doesn't say anything. He turns his face away from the guard, tucks himself in the corner of the cage with his knees drawn up to his chest, and doesn't say anything at all.

The market is still in the process of being set up, and only a few locals are drifting around the outskirts, waiting for the guards to let them in to get a good look, when an enormous and enormously tasteless carriage rattles past. It's white with red-painted metalwork and a coat of arms painted on the door, pulled along by four matched, prancing black horses. It trundles to a stop a little farther down the road, and Brendon hears a high-pitched voice trill, "Oh Petey, must we? You know how I hate these things."

"Duty calls, my love," responds a male voice grandly, and the owner - obviously a gentleman, sporting high white riding boots that have clearly never been near a horse and a fancy tailored jacket - jumps down from the carriage and strides past the flummoxed guards, straight into the ring between the wagons where the slaves are being herded into something resembling a display. "Who's in charge here?" he demands.

All the slaves try not to stare as the caravan master practically lights up, scenting money, and rushes to greet the lord with exaggerated deference. The man's wife - pretty, but even more badly overdressed than he is - minces into the ring after him with a lace handkerchief pressed over her nose, followed by a dumpy balding servant with a notepad, and the bowing and scraping begins to get a little ridiculous. The lord appears to be enjoying it all immensely, and he only cuts off the slaver's effusive greetings and compliments after the servant coughs pointedly and murmurs, "Sir."

"Martin? Ah yes, of course," says the lord. "Well, let's make it quick. I've lost half my plantation boys to this damned plague. What have you got?"

The caravan master pauses, clearly doing some profitable arithmetic in his head. "One hundred and forty-one healthy adult males, Lord Wentz, ideal unskilled labor," he says. "Two dozen females. You can examine for yourself -"

"I'll take the lot," says Wentz, and bares his teeth at the master in a distinctly unsavory grin. "Or not - I know your type. My man Martin will look them over for me, in case you've miscounted, hmm? And in the meantime you and I can talk about batch prices."

The caravan master hides his horror well - his face barely quivers as he sees his profits sink, and Brendon thinks he hears one of the guards chuckle meanly. Wentz demands a lantern for his servant -"How's he supposed to see them clearly in this light, hmm?" - then offers his arm to his wife, raising an impatient eyebrow. The master claps his hands and a couple of guards bring stools and a table for the negotiations.

The servant works his way methodically through the rows of chained, naked slaves, cursorily checking each one for injuries or obvious weakness. Brendon watches out of the corner of his eye; he knows you can learn a lot about a new master by looking at the servants he's already got. Martin's coat is ill-fitting but obviously warm, and Brendon guesses that his slouched posture and stringy hair (which is hideously combed back from his receding hairline) have more to do with personal slovenliness than neglect on Wentz's part. That means the young lord is easy-going, which is good news.

The bad news is that Brendon's pretty sure he's about half an hour away from becoming a plantation slave, and he knows they get treated very differently from household staff.

Brendon's in the third row, so it doesn't take Martin long to get to him. When he does, he does his job quickly and efficiently, walking around Brendon twice and then making a note on his notepad. "Lift your feet," he says, and Brendon does. Martin shakes his head when he sees the mud on them. "Fucking Pete," he mutters. "All right, let's see your teeth, kid."

That's when Brendon looks up - it's pretty much impossible not to look at someone when he's checking your teeth, he's discovered, though some people make you try - and so that's when he looks at Martin properly for the first time, and he knows the brief, stunned moment of recognition on the man's face is echoed on his own -

Because it's _Patrick_.

Brendon _knows_ Patrick. Brendon's sung duets with Patrick, bashed out piano compositions with Patrick, argued musical theory with him late into the night while they got steadily drunker and drunker on Lady Victoria's best wine. Patrick is a close personal friend of Lady Victoria's – though not a drone, never a drone, Brendon remembers her sighing about it once and saying, _If I have to marry someone, I'd much rather it were Patrick than any of these idiots_. Patrick wears well-cut but unfashionable clothes and good boots. Patrick is never seen anywhere without a hat. Patrick is a country man who likes to tease Lady Victoria about her appreciation for city life in general and the famous Angels and Kings Club in particular. Patrick sometimes turns up at the manor on horseback in the dead of night and has long, hushed meetings with Lady Victoria and Alex and Ryland in her study.

Patrick isn't a servant to _anyone_ \- especially not Lord Wentz - who, Brendon realizes, must be Lord _Pete_ Wentz, the uncontested king of the Decaydance set, rakehell prince of Angels and Kings, and another friend of Lady Victoria's, though Brendon's never met him. Pete Wentz is the man whose stable boys used to bring Lady Victoria private messages – and something else flashes through Brendon's head when he thinks of that, a memory of pain and someone saying _I knew he had to be in this somewhere_ and – what the hell, thinks Brendon, what the _hell_ is going on?

"Shit," Patrick mutters. Then he takes a step back and settles back into the Martin persona; Brendon can see him do it, the way he hunches his shoulders, tucks his chin in, exaggerates his slouch. "Bit small, aren't you?" he says, light, impersonal, bored. "Got any special skills?"

"I - I'm a musician, sir," says Brendon. He wants to yell, to fling himself at Patrick's feet and beg for help or rescue or _anything_ , but Patrick obviously has something in mind and Brendon doesn't dare.

"A musician, huh," he says. "Any good?"

"I - yes," says Brendon, and reels off the list of instruments he can play. It's second nature, by now; he's done it often enough. Patrick's - Martin's - eyebrows fly up. "Hmph. Pete had better take a look at you. My lord!" he calls. "Sir!"

It takes Wentz a couple of moments to excuse himself from the negotiations and amble over. He leaves his wife behind him still deep in discussion with the master. "What is it, Martin?" he says. "Find something interesting?"

"This one says he's a musician, sir," says Patrick.

"Does he now?" says Wentz. "What does he play?"

They start to discuss him casually, listing his possible features and flaws like he's a horse Wentz might buy. Brendon wonders for a moment if he dreamed that moment of recognition, if Patrick has a long-lost twin or something, before he notices that neither of them is actually meeting the other's eyes while they chat. They're watching each others' hands instead, hands that are moving almost imperceptibly in a flicker of sign and counter-sign.

Brendon's seen the sign language plenty of times before. He noticed Alex and Ryland using it once, and Alex grinned and told him it was for hunting, "So you can talk without talking, Brendon, and don't scare the deer." He even taught Brendon a few of the signs, and Brendon recognizes a couple of them now - _trouble_ and _keep cover_ \- but the rest of what they're saying is a mystery. He's never seen anyone sign so fast and so fluently, not even Alex and Ryland, and he keeps getting distracted by the sounds of their voices talking about something else entirely.

Finally Patrick's hands move in an emphatic _NOW_ , and Wentz nods carelessly. "Ashlee, my love!" he sing-songs over his shoulder. "Come look at what I've found!"

His wife picks her way over to them through the mud and puts her hand on Wentz's arm. "He looks a bit puny to me," she says with a pout. "What's this about?"

"He's a musician, my lady," says Patrick dryly. His hands flicker.

Lady Wentz squeals with sudden delight. "Ooh! I _love_ music! Pete, darling, did I ever tell you how Daddy bought me an orchestra?"

"Many times," says Wentz. "Many, many times. I'm afraid I can't afford an orchestra yet, honeybear, but would you like a pet to sing for you until I can?"

She trills an irritating little laugh and pinches Brendon's cheek. "I'd adore it. Oh, look at him, isn't he cute? You should buy him for me right away, and we can take him home with us tomorrow morning," - both Patrick and Wentz make the urgent _NOW_ signal again -"In fact," Lady Wentz corrects herself without blinking, "I want to take him back to the inn tonight. Look at his big brown _eyes_! He can sing me to sleep, can't he?"

"You heard the lady," says Wentz with a chuckle to the caravan master. "We're taking this one now, and I want you to hold the rest in reserve for me. I'll come back and close the deal tomorrow morning."

"Of course, sir," says the master faintly.

Before Brendon can so much as blink, the guards are being summoned to take him out of the line, and he's being forced back into his clothes and hustled towards Wentz's tasteless carriage. Only when the door's been slammed closed on the four of them and the carriage is in motion, when Lady Wentz has collapsed back into her seat with a tremendous sigh and her husband has unbuttoned the top three buttons on his shirt and pressed a kiss to her temple - only then does Patrick dig around underneath his seat, pull out a hat, jam it firmly over 'Martin's' greasy hair, and turn to Brendon, who's sitting gingerly on the edge of the carriage's velvet-upholstered seat, staring fixedly at the floor, not quite believing this is happening. "God, Brendon," he says, "how in hell did you end up there?"

Brendon shakes his head.

"Well, at least we got you out," says Patrick after a moment. "You can - after you're washed up and rested, you can tell us."

"What's the big problem?" says Lady Wentz.

"I think our new musician was one of Vicky-T's," her husband answers. "Right, Patrick?"

"He recognized me," says Patrick. He claps Brendon on the shoulder but withdraws his hand quickly when Brendon flinches. "Not that I wouldn't have grabbed you out of there _anyway_ , Bren. How long have you been there? What the fuck happened to you?"

Brendon looks down. Lady Victoria vanishing, the auctions, the caravans, the last six months, _everything_ , he doesn't know where to start.

"What's wrong with him?" asks Wentz, and then corrects himself, addressing Brendon. "What's wrong with you?"

"I-" says Brendon. "I don't -"

He's just been rescued - no, he's just been _bought_ \- and he has no idea what's going on.

"Brendon?" Patrick says quietly. "You okay?"

He wants to answer – this is _Patrick_ , Brendon used to think he was a friend – but he's in a strange carriage, rattling through the night, and after so many months of wishing he could find somebody, _any_ familiar face, he can't make any sense of this at all.

"The others." Brendon swallows and takes a deep breath. He wishes Wentz and his wife would stop staring at him like he's a strange, mythical creature they're found in the woods.

"The other who?" Patrick asks.

"You're going to – in the morning?"

"You mean... oh. Yeah, that's the plan. We'll go back in the morning." Patrick exchanges glances with Wentz. "Why?"

Brendon shrugs and looks down at his mud-caked feet. It's warmer in the carriage and than out in the wind, but he's still cold, still trying to hold himself tightly so he doesn't shiver. He doesn't have any friends in the caravan, not really, nobody he's got the right to ask about. Ryan and Spencer didn't even want to talk to him.

"Is the caravan master trustworthy?" Wentz asks suddenly.

Lady Wentz snorts. "I wouldn't trust that slimy man farther than I could throw him," she says. Brendon looks up, surprised. There's no trace of the preening, fluttering mannerisms anymore, and she's still looking at him, her eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

Wentz says, "No, I mean, will he keep his end of the deal and wait until morning?"

It isn't until Patrick touches his shoulder and says, "Will he?" that Brendon realizes Wentz is talking to him.

"I don't know, my lord," he says. He knows it's never a good idea to speak badly of a previous owner, all owners hate that, but he feels a pang of guilt at lying and adds, "I think he'll – he'll do whatever earns him the most money." If he's presented with a better option, Brendon has no doubt the master will break the deal.

Wentz nods like that's the answer he was expecting. "Well," he says to nobody in particular, "we could – "

"No," Lady Wentz says. "We couldn't. It's too dangerous."

"But if we – "

" _No_ ," she says, more firmly. "Not alone. It would never work. We have a _plan_ , Pete."

Wentz looks like he's going to argue, but instead he sits back against the carriage seat and crosses his arms over his chest like a pouting child. "You take all the spontaneity out of our subversive adventures."

"Somebody has to keep you out of trouble," she replies easily.

"Keep me from having _fun_ ," Wentz retorts.

Patrick is smiling a little, watching them bicker, and Brendon is dying to ask what the hell is going on. A year ago, he would have, wouldn't have thought twice about pestering Patrick until he got some answers, but he doesn't know if he's allowed to do that anymore.

Patrick notices him watching, though, and says, "It's a long story, Brendon. Just be patient with us, okay?"

It sounds like a request, not a command. Brendon nods uncertainly.

The carriage slows, and Brendon hears the shout of an ostler outside. Lady Wentz pushes a curtain aside to look out and makes a displeased face. "Do they just sit around all day watching for us?" she asks, clearly annoyed.

"Are you kidding?" Wentz says, laughing. "We're the most excitement this inn has seen in twenty years." He stands up and lurches a little when the carriage stops fully. The door opens, and he leans down and whispers to Brendon, "Sorry about this, kid."

Then he grabs Brendon's arm, pulls him off the seat, and shoves him out the door. Brendon pitches face-forward unto the ground as behind him Wentz bellows, "Martin! Get this filthy brat cleaned up and out of my sight."

Brendon stays on the ground, prone and deferent, and peeks up only enough to see Lord Wentz's boots and Lady Wentz's skirts as they walk toward the inn. Warm yellow light and cheerful noise spill out when the door opens, vanish again when it slams shut.

"Hey." Somebody kneels beside Brendon and puts a hand on his shoulder. "Come on, let's get you inside."

The voice is quiet and kind. Brendon lifts his head first, then pushes himself up and rises to his feet. The man beside him is dressed like a servant and smells faintly of horses; he has dark hair and a beard and a friendly smile.

Patrick is standing a few feet away. "You okay?"

Brendon says shakily, "Yes, sir."

"Fuck, Brendon, it's only – " Patrick shakes his head and sighs. "Okay. Is there someplace he can get cleaned up? Someplace warm?"

The bearded man nods and gestures behind him. "Sure. Just take him through the stable. Tom and I'll get the horses."

Patrick looks around, then lowers his voice and says, "This is a big fucking mess we've got, I hope you -"

The man claps Patrick on the shoulder and interrupts loudly, "Go on inside, Martin. It's a cold night."

It's a lot warmer inside the stable. A pair of oil lamps hang high on posts, filling the room with soft light, and horses stomp their feet in greeting as Brendon and Patrick walk through. There's a room at the back of the stable with two narrow cots shoved against the walls and a barrel set up as a table between them. Another oil lamp hangs from a hook on the wall, and the door rattles in the night wind.

"Wait here," Patrick says.

He unlatches the door and vanishes into the darkness outside. He doesn't shut the door behind him and Brendon thinks, for one wild moment, that there's an open door, he's not chained up, it's dark and the clouds are covering the moon, he could, if he's fast, he _could_ –

Patrick comes back inside carrying a bucket of water. "Here," he says. "It's cold, but you can get cleaned up a little."

Brendon blinks in confusion, and his confusion quickly turns into panic. _He's_ the slave, he should be carrying the water. Patrick shouldn't have to do that even if he's pretending to be a servant, Brendon should have _known_ , and he would have but he's just so tired and hungry and this night is too strange and he can carry water, he _can_ –

"Brendon. _Brendon_." Patrick sets the bucket down with a thump and steps toward him. "Relax, okay? It's just a bucket of water. I can handle it."

"But I -" Brendon bites his lip. "Did I say that out loud?"

Patrick rolls his eyes, but he seems more amused than annoyed. "No, I've learned to read your mind. Now, if you're done talking to yourself, get yourself cleaned up."

"What, you don't like how I smell?" As soon as he says it, Brendon clamps his mouth shut. Before, at Lady Victoria's, he wouldn't think anything of joking with Patrick, but things are different now.

At least, he thinks things are different now. Patrick doesn't react any differently. He only says, "You fucking reek, and you have more mud on you than skin."

"He's right, you know."

Brendon spins around, startled. The bearded man is standing in the doorway, leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed over his chest. But he's smiling still, in a way that makes it seem like his words weren't an insult at all.

"Go on," the man says, nodding at Brendon. "Patrick and I'll leave you alone for a minute."

It's been so long since Brendon's bathed he's not even sure he remembers how. The water is cold and there's no soap, but he does the best he can, stripping off his clothes and shivering as he scrubs the worst of the mud from his skin. He pauses every few seconds to listen, but the man and Patrick are speaking in voices too quiet for him to eavesdrop effectively.

Patrick. The stable boy called him Patrick, not Martin.

Brendon sighs. This night just keeps getting weirder.

He hates to put his disgusting clothes back on, but he doesn't have anything else. He dumps the water out the back door and sets it aside. He thinks about sitting on one of the cots to wait, but the stable boys might get angry to have a slave sitting on their beds. Brendon's thinking about curling up on the floor when Patrick returns, this time with both stable boys behind him.

The fair one looks Brendon over and says curtly, "Sit down before you fall on your ass."

Brendon does as he's told, sits on the side of one cot and watches Patrick. Patrick is frowning, not looking at any of them, obviously thinking about something.

"You're sure?" he asks. "Both passes?"

Both of the stable boys answer, "Yeah."

Patrick shakes his head. "Shit. Why the fuck are all these soldiers out anyway?"

"Who knows? They've been crawling around the countryside for weeks, like fucking ants," the fair one says, laughing a little, but it's not a happy sound. "I don't suppose Pete thought of that before he went and bought an entire caravan, did he? Does he think nobody will _notice_?"

Patrick snorts. "I don't know what the hell Pete thinks. And there's no - well, one of you has to go warn them. Leave tonight and you can get there in plenty of time to meet Eric at the border, and we just have to hope nobody's dumb enough to walk right into a fucking ambush."

"I'll do it," the bearded one says. He grins. "I ride faster than Tom anyway."

The other stable boy – Tom – makes a face but doesn't argue. "In your dreams, asshole. But, should we be..." He gives Brendon a significant glance, then looks back at Patrick with eyebrows raised in question. "You haven't introduced us to your friend."

"Oh. Right." Patrick gestures vaguely. "This is Brendon. He used to be Victoria's. Brendon, this is Tom, Jon."

"Nice to meet you," Tom says. He doesn't sound particularly friendly, but he doesn't sound like he's talking to a slave either, and Brendon doesn't know how to respond. To Patrick, Tom adds, "What the hell are we supposed to do with him?"

"Just, uh... Well. I don't know," Patrick says, scowling. "God, I don't know. This wasn't part of the fucking plan either. But I wasn't going to _leave_ him there." Patrick sounds angry, angry like Brendon's never heard him before, but there's something else in his words, in the way he's watching Brendon. "I guess we'll just keep playing the game," Patrick says finally. "Go inside and sing a fucking song for the lady of the manor. Can you do that, Bren?"

Brendon means to say yes, yes, of _course_ he can, he'll do whatever he's told, but somehow he blurts out instead, "You're _asking_ me?"

"Fuck," Patrick says, with feeling. "Yes, Brendon, I'm _asking_ – "

"Hey," the bearded stable boy – Jon, this one is Jon – interrupts smoothly. "I have an idea. He can come with me."

"I think somebody will notice if Lord Wentz's brand new purchase goes missing," Patrick says dryly.

"Pete will make something up," Jon replies easily. "He's good at that. And it'll be safer, in case something does happen. Pete will have his hands full tomorrow morning anyway."

Patrick starts nodding slowly. "That might be better. Brendon, listen, I think Jon's right. You should go with him tonight. Things might get – well, who the fuck knows, maybe nothing will happen, but just in case. Jon can get you to safety. We need a new plan anyway. A hundred and seventy fucking slaves, god, Pete, what the hell..." He turns and walks away, still muttering to himself, and after a second Tom rolls his eyes and follows.

Brendon clears his throat. "Um, sir?"

"Don't call me 'sir,'" Jon says. There's a sharp edge in his voice, and Brendon slumps a little. "Call me Jon," he says, more gently. "I'm going to call you Brendon. It's only fair."

 _Fair_ , Brendon thinks. The word echoes strange and unfamiliar in his mind. Nobody cares about being fair to a slave.

"What is it?" Jon asks.

"I have no idea what's going on," Brendon admits.

Jon looks surprised. "Patrick didn't tell you?"

Brendon shakes his head. "He bought me. I mean, Lord Wentz did, and we came here. That's all."

Jon stares at him for a moment, then rubs a hand over his beard and laughs a little. "Fuck. Well, um, this is gonna take a while to explain. We're leaving in half an hour or so. You mind if I tell you while we're riding?"

"No," Brendon says. Then: "Riding? Where are we going?"

[Chapter Two](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/1051.html)


	3. But Not the Song (2/17)

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**But Not the Song (2/17)**   
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[Story Index and Warnings](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/446.html)

[Chapter One](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/783.html)

  
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**ii.**   
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When they get to the market they take Ryan out of the cage and chain him up with all the others. The guards are laughing and joking crudely; one of them grabs him by the hair to hold him still while another smears paint on his face. Ryan doesn't fight them this time, even when they shake him and ask him where his teeth are tonight. They're probably doing him a favor by making him look ridiculous, and when they grow bored one of them slaps him on the face and says, "Pretty as a picture, little whore," and they walk away, still laughing.

Ryan's legs are so cramped from a day in the cage he can barely stay upright, but he stands on his toes and stretches as tall as he can to look over the heads of the slaves.

He can't see Spencer anywhere.

There are too many slaves, and it's growing too dark. He sees the hideous carriage arrive with its equally hideous passengers, and he sees the master fall over himself fawning over them. He sees the little man go through the lines making notes, and he sees him pull Brendon of all people – who the hell would want to buy _Brendon_ , he's too small to be useful, and fucking annoying too – out of the line. He sees money change hands, and Brendon vanishes into the carriage with the rich couple and their servant. The carriage rattles away, and Ryan sees the master speak to the guards. The guards turn away a few people who are approaching the market curiously.

But he can't see Spencer anywhere.

It doesn't mean anything. There are a lot of slaves, and Spencer was with the injured ones earlier. The master always keeps the injured slaves – _sorry, sorry_ , Ryan thinks desperately, _so fucking sorry_ – in a separate group, shackled apart, only showing them if a buyer is interested in a bargain. It doesn't mean anything.

The master doesn't seem interested in entertaining more buyers, but they keep the slaves chained up and the guards wander through the lines. Ryan curls into himself against the cold and tries to ignore his growing dread. He tries to think of nothing, but his mind is filled with the tiny noises Spencer was holding back when the master whipped him, the cold of Spencer's skin and the warmth of his blood on Ryan's hands, the jeers of the guards hounding the wounded slaves all day, and _it doesn't mean anything._

Ryan doesn't sleep at all that night. When dawn comes, he stands awkwardly with the others and looks around again, trying not to hope.

Nothing. No Spencer. He squeezes his eyes shut for a long moment, opens them again and tries to peer around the wagons without obviously craning his neck. But it's no use, he's standing in exactly the wrong place. He suspects it's on purpose.

What he does see, barely half an hour after daybreak, is the ugly red and white carriage drawing up again, and the stupid lord who bought Brendon leaping down and sauntering back into the market. "Good morning!" he yells. "Lovely day for business!"

The dawn mist is still hanging in the air. All over the caravan slaves and guards wince and rub their eyes, and the mercenary standing behind Ryan's group of slaves mutters audibly, "Fucking hell." It takes nearly five minutes for the caravan master to appear, stumbling out of his wagon with a cut on his chin from shaving and his shirt untucked in the back. There's an oily smile on his face but his jaw is twitching. Ryan hides a smirk; they all know the master's not a morning person.

The lord slaps the master on the back, a little too hard to be the companionable gesture it looks like. "Good man!" he says. "Good to see you didn't run off in the night!"

"My lord, I would never -"

"Of course, of course. Anyway, you've been holding out on me. My wife's new toy tells me you stock toys for gentlemen too." The lord winks exaggeratedly. "It so happens I've been looking. Just between us, her ladyship is..." He smirks. "Well. A delight to the eyes, and we'll say no more about that."

Ryan doesn't think much of the lord's "just between us": apparently a troop of mercenaries and a couple of hundred slaves listening avidly to gossip about his wife's marital failings don't count. His lips curl in an automatic sneer of disgust, and it's not until the lord and the slaver are walking over towards him that he catches up with the conversation and realizes that by "toys for gentlemen" they mean _him_ \- and fucking Brendon, fucking interfering Brendon, why couldn't he keep his fucking mouth shut?

"Smile, princess," murmurs the guard behind him. He grabs Ryan's wrists to untie him from the line. "Smile real pretty or your boyfriend gets it. Again."

Ryan seizes onto the fury that rises instantly in his throat, uses it to keep himself standing up straight, to hold his face still, to force back the hot sting behind his eyes that means tears are coming. Otherwise he'd collapse under the weight of sheer relief, because if they can still threaten Spencer at him, if they can still laugh at him like that, that at least means Spencer's still alive.

When the lord reaches him Ryan looks straight at him, meets his eyes with a dumb, insolent glare.

Spencer's told him a hundred times not to do it - "They hate that, Ry," he's said, "they hate anything that looks like you're fighting. There are ways around, you've just got to be sneaky -" but Ryan always forgets to keep his eyes down until it's too late, until they've already seen how much he despises them.

He glares, and the lord watches him back, unmoved, through dark, amused eyes. "Feisty," he comments.

Ryan keeps himself from snarling, barely, and holds his head high as the lord walks a slow circle around him.

"A little on the scrawny side," the lord says. It's all Ryan can do to keep from turning his head to keep the man in sight. He's shorter than Ryan, short enough that there's no way he should be intimidating, but the caravan master and mercenaries are watching him with something that looks like both awe and hunger.

The master smiles thinly and fixes Ryan with a warning glare. "I assure you, my lord, he is very well-trained for anything you might require."

The lord smiles; it's not a pleasant look. "That's what they all say. Well, my men will – Ah. Here they are now."

There are several men on horseback approaching the caravan. They are armed and fitted in fine clothing, and the horses are well-bred and healthy.

The lord turns without looking at Ryan again and says carelessly, "Put this one in my carriage, and we'll discuss payment for the rest." He strides away, and the master hurries after him like a dog following a scent.

The guard shoves Ryan forward roughly. "You heard the man. Looks like he wants to take you special, apart from the others."

It takes Ryan a few seconds. _The rest_ , the lord said. He swivels his head around to look; the guard wrenches his arm to pull him back into place, but Ryan sees enough. The lord has several men, not as many as the master has mercenaries but enough to control a large number of slaves. Maybe not all of them – maybe only the able-bodied – and Ryan tries to turn again as they walk by the wagons, struggling for a glimpse of the injured slaves set apart from the others.

The guard twists his arm again with a laughing, "Nice try, sweetheart. Scared of your wedding night?"

Ryan lashes out without thinking, letting loose a wordless growl and kicking at the man's legs even though he _knows_ it's futile. The man backhands him almost casually and Ryan stumbles to his knees, automatically curling into himself against the guard's boots.

But instead of kicks to his back, Ryan feels only a hand grabbing his arm and pulling him to his feet. It's the man with the gladiator tattoos – Zack, that's the name Brendon used – and he lifts Ryan as though he weighs nothing.

"I got this one," Zack says to the other guard. "Go handle the others." The guard grunts in acknowledgment, and when he's several steps away Zack says quietly, "He's buying all of you, taking the injured ones in a wagon to his plantation."

Ryan looks up at him in surprise, half a question forming on his tongue: "What – "

But if Zack notices he doesn't let on. He pushes Ryan over to the garish carriage, opens the door and shoves him inside. The door shuts firmly behind him.

The inside of the carriage is upholstered and painted and empty. When the lord comes back it's going to be just him and Ryan.

Ryan stands between the seats, unwilling to touch the ugly red velvet favored by his new _master_. He thinks about trying the door, about making another attempt at running. It might work, everyone will be distracted by rounding up the other slaves, the lord is quite clearly as thick as a brick -

The lord has bought Spencer. Spencer won't be able to run with him.

Ryan realizes his hands are shaking and glares at them until they stop.

He has to - he has to - he doesn't know what he has to, only that he has to get Spencer out, _out_ , somehow. (Every time he closes his eyes he sees the whip come down again, and he could map the pattern of half-healed scars and mottled bruises on Spencer's back by memory, match each layer to his own transgressions, every memory sharp as a knife.) He has to - _something_. And the lord owns him. And the lord owns Spencer.

And when he thinks about it like that, the decision is easy. In fact, it's barely a decision at all.

The carriage interior is full of reflective surfaces, all shiny and gold, distorted like carnival mirrors but enough for Ryan to see his face paint, to get some idea of how he looks. He rubs at the thick kohl around his eyes until the smudging looks intentional, and he rips a strip off his thin shirt to wipe off most of the haphazardly smeared rouge. With it gone he doesn't look quite so cheap, and after a moment's consideration he smudges what's left so it looks like it's emphasizing his eyes as well. _There,_ he thinks. _Practically sophisticated_. All around him the curved, brassy reflections are giving him a twisted smile.

The tattered remainder of his shirt isn't worth saving. He shivers for a moment, then strips it off before he sits down on one of the ugly velvet seats.

When the carriage door finally opens again, Ryan doesn't know how long he's been waiting. He knows what he's doing (a memory: Spencer kneeling in front of him, putting his hands on Ryan's face where the paint is flaking and whispering, _No, no, no,_ his voice chilled with fury, saying _I'll kill them all, Ry, and you can -_ and Ryan forced himself to be tough, to sit up, to say, _Don't say it, don't even think about it_ , to say _I don't want to survive if you don't._ ) He can do this. He will.

There are ways around if you're sneaky.

He counts to three inside his head and lets himself be looked at. He can feel the lord's eyes on him, and when he glances up through his lashes, meets the lord's gaze, he shifts in a way that might be coincidental if it weren't so clearly an invitation.

"My lord," he murmurs. He can’t quite force his voice into the eager tone he wants, but it’s a start.

The lord stares at him for a long moment, and says, "Don't move." He slams the carriage door behind him, sticks his head out the window and yells, "Drive on, Martin!" He drops down onto the seat opposite Ryan as the carriage rumbles underneath them and begins to move, and tugs a couple of times at his collar, as if he's too hot. "It's Ryan, isn't it? Ryan...?"

Ryan says, "Ross," automatically and only remembers afterwards that slaves don't have surnames.

The lord doesn't seem to think there's anything wrong about it, though. "Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz the Third," he says back, as if this is an actual introduction. He grins, baring very white teeth in his dark face. "You may have heard of me."

Ryan doesn't know what to say. He licks his lips nervously and only realizes what that looks like when Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz the Third blinks, stares, curses under his breath, and says, "Didn't you have a shirt?"

Ryan ignores the question. _Thick as a brick_. He slips from the seat to the floor and kneels before Lord Wentz, his eyes cast demurely downward. "Thank you," he says. ( _Do they expect us to be grateful?_ he asked once, incredulously, and he remembers Spencer's tired answer: _I never had any clothes that weren't yours first._ Cast off and collected throughout the year, wrapped up in a bundle and presented as a gift, and Ryan felt guilt and nausea churn in his gut until Spencer bumped his shoulder, smiled and said, _It's not like they'd fit me now anyway, skeleton-boy._ )

"Thank you," Wentz repeats, his voice flat with disbelief.

"The caravan master..." Ryan pauses, more for dramatic effect than anything. "He is not a kind man," he says. He edges forward a little until he's kneeling beside the lord's boots, brushing against his knees. Ryan wills his hand not to shake as he reaches to touch the man's thigh, a light, teasing dance of fingers. He hears a sharp intake of breath, watches the lord swallow with something that might be anticipation. "He – "

So quickly Ryan doesn't even see him move, Wentz grabs Ryan's wrist and yanks it away from his leg, hard. "Where's the knife?"

Ryan stares. "Where – what?" he stammers, completely forgetting his act.

"Oh, come on," Wentz says, rolling his eyes. "You're good, I'll give you that, but the last time a courtesan got this close voluntarily it was because she wanted to run me through with a dagger. If it's all the same to you, I don't really want to repeat that experience." He adds thoughtfully, "I did get an impressive scar, but my wife would kill me if I offered to show it to you."

"I – I don't – " Wentz's grip on Ryan's wrist is firm but not painful, and when Ryan pulls away he lets him go. "I wouldn't," he begins, but it's hard to form the lie. It's not like he hasn't thought about it. It's not like he hasn't tried dozens of times to steal a knife for that very purpose.

"Sure you would," Wentz says easily. "I can't say I'd blame you, either. But I really don't see where you can be hiding a knife, so now I'm curious. What do you want?"

It takes Ryan a moment to remember what he's supposed to say. "To please you, my lord," he says. _To get on your good side_ , he thinks. _To make you like me._

"Yeah, that's real convincing," Wentz says. "Do I look like an idiot to you?"

Ryan narrows his eyes.

Wentz laughs, a loud, braying sound. "That asshole trader had no fucking idea what he had in you, did he?"

Ryan drops his gaze again, suddenly scared of what Wentz will see. "My lord – "

"Stop. Seriously, don't," Wentz says. "I like you better when you're not pretending. Did you really bite the last guy who tried to buy you?" Without waiting for an answer, he reaches out and touches Ryan shoulder softly. Ryan carefully does not flinch away. "Go sit on the seat," he says. "We're got a long ride, and there's no point being uncomfortable."

Ryan doesn't move.

"Go," Wentz says, shoving him gently. "Oh, and if we get attacked? Run for the woods. You look pretty fast. You might be okay."

 _Attacked?_ Ryan backs away and sits down awkwardly as far from Wentz as he can get in the small space of the carriage, pressed into a corner on the opposite bench. The horses' hooves pounding and the carriage wheels rumbling over the rough dirt road are the only sounds. Wentz apparently takes Ryan's retreat as his cue to relax; he stretches out on the seat and puts his feet up, one arm thrown across his face. After a moment he says, "Whatever it is you're thinking about asking me, you should probably go ahead and ask me."

"I didn't say anything," says Ryan, and belatedly adds, "My lord."

Wentz looks up and rolls his eyes. "I told you my name, Ross. You can keep my-lording me if it makes you feel any better, but I don't see much point." He pauses. "You're wondering why we'd get attacked, aren't you?"

Ryan nods. There doesn't seem to be much point in denying it.

"But we've only just met, so it's a little soon to be telling you my secrets." Wentz winks at him. "Stick with me long enough and you'll find out."

Ryan's only sticking with Wentz until he can find Spencer and come up with a way for both of them to escape, but he nods again anyway. They fall back into silence, and Ryan focuses his attention on the landscape zipping past outside, watching Wentz out of the corner of his eye in case he decides to move suddenly, or... anything. Wentz doesn't look dangerous - in fact he looks half-asleep - but Ryan didn't trust him ten minutes ago and he doesn't trust him now.

They've been on the move for nearly an hour and Ryan's almost relaxed when the carriage suddenly jolts and shudders to a stop. Wentz jerks awake, swears loudly, and shouts, "Martin, what the hell?"

Seconds later the door is flung open and Wentz's driver appears.

"Pete," he says urgently. "It's Tom."

Wentz moves fast, shoving past his servant to climb out of the carriage. Ryan stands up to look out the open door. There's a man waiting in the road, breathing hard as though he's just run a race. His left hand is clenched around his right upper arm, and blood is seeping between his fingers and staining his shirt.

"What -" begins Wentz.

"Soldiers," says Tom, if that's his name. "Two squads. Pete, the inn's surrounded, everyone's under suspicion. They're not letting anybody leave. I managed to get out - they shot my horse -"

"Let me see your arm," says the servant Martin.

Tom pulls away. "It's fine, it's nothing. I'm glad I caught you here, I have to warn - will you give me one of your horses?"

"You're injured, for god's sake. You're not riding anywhere," says Wentz. "I don't understand, why are the soldiers there _now_? How much do they know?"

"I've _got_ to ride," snarls Tom. "You don't know - Jon, all right, it's Jon. They're looking for Jon. They caught some runaways at the border crossing, or there's a leak, I don't know, but they got his name somehow, his and mine, and - they suspect -" He makes a helpless gesture and winces when it jogs his wounded arm. "Everyone, but her ladyship has it under control. They don't know, they can't prove anything. But they've got warrants. For Jon, and for me. When her ladyship said he wasn't there they settled in to wait for him."

"Fuck," says Wentz. " _Fuck._ "

"You can't ride," says Martin. "There's no way you can ride well enough with that arm. You'll never catch him. I'll go -"

"Because that's not going to look suspicious at all, Pete Wentz comes back from the market the day both his grooms go on the run from the law, and his most trusted servant is missing along with one of his horses," says Wentz. He paces a few steps back and forth, scrubbing a hand through his hair until it stands on end. "Not forgetting that Mr. Stumph shouldn't even be in the _country_ right now. It's too risky, Patrick."

Ryan doesn't know what he's stumbled into, but it's obviously huge, bigger than some nobleman's game. Wentz and his servant are glaring at each other now, and neither of them looks about to back down. "For fuck's sake," says Tom, "just give me the goddamned horse and I'll go. I've ridden with worse than this - who the _fuck_ is that?"

He's looking at Ryan, still standing in the carriage doorway. Wentz and his servant turn to look at him too. "We rescued him from the same bastard who had Brendon," says Martin.

Wentz's eyes narrow speculatively. "Ross," he says, "can you ride?"

"Pete," Martin says sharply, and there's nothing subservient in his voice, nothing meek about the way he's addressing Wentz. "He'll run. We can't risk it."

"We're wasting time," Tom adds angrily. "Just let me – " He turns to stride away but bumps his arm against Martin and hisses with pain.

Wentz is still looking at Ryan. "Can you?"

Ryan hesitates. He hasn't ridden in years, not since he was taken, but he spent most of his childhood on horseback.

"You have no reason to trust me," Wentz says. His servant Martin snorts quietly. "You have no reason to believe we're any different from any of the others who have bought and sold you. And normally we have a better way of going about it than this, but we don't really have time to explain everything right now. We need you to carry a message for us."

Ryan grips the edge of the carriage doorway and tries not to let them see how much he's trembling. "I don't understand," he says, his voice cracking on the last word. Nobody buys a slave to warm his bed then sends him away on horseback with secretive messages. Nobody buys a slave and lets him out of his sight or out of chains at all for weeks or months.

Wentz says, "I'm going to set you free. _All_ of you, every single person I bought from that fucking bastard, you're all going to be free. But I can't do it until we're out of the province, because somebody's going to notice a hundred and fifty new freedmen wandering around and start asking questions."

"They already have," Tom mutters.

"My men have already split up into smaller groups to take them somewhere safe," Wentz goes on, ignoring him. He's talking directly to Ryan, seriously and earnestly as though Ryan is just another man, not a piece of painted property. "But if the soldiers have warrants for Tom and Jon, they know more than I thought they did. We have to warn the others."

It's not a question, but Wentz waits. It's a trick, Ryan thinks. It's a lie, it's a joke, it's some kind of scheme, it's – he doesn't know what it is. His mind is reeling but he can't think fast enough, can't figure out what it is the men aren't telling him.

He opens his mouth to ask for more information, to snap in angry disbelief, to demand _something_ , but all that comes out is, "The injured ones – are they –"

Wentz looks confused, but the servant Martin says, "They'll be free too. Your friend is with them?" Ryan doesn't know how he knows about Spencer – the other slaves, the mercenaries, Brendon, anyone could have told him – but he nods numbly. "After you find Jon and warn him, he'll take you to the rendezvous."

"Your friend will probably be there already," Wentz says. "Joe's leading the wagon, and he travels fast."

Ryan wants to tell them he doesn't believe them. It's not possible, it _can't_ be possible. There are always rumors, yes, whispers and mutters amongst the slaves about secret societies, about slaves who vanish in the night and the men and women who spirit them away to freedom. Ryan has never believed it. Slaves who vanish go to be worked to death in the silver mines or tossed in a shallow, unmarked grave. Not to freedom, never to freedom.

Unless.

Ryan takes a deep breath and licks his dry lips. "I can ride," he says.

Wentz's face breaks into a wide grin. "Good. _Great_. Okay, here's where you need to – uh, actually, I have no idea where Jon is. Tom, tell him where he has to go."

Tom shakes his head, but he gives Ryan a complex set of directions, through hills and along rivers, on small trails and into hidden valleys. Then he adds, with input from Wentz, exactly what message Ryan is to convey: the number of soldiers, where they're searching, what they might be planning. Ryan listens carefully, committing every detail to memory.

"It's a safe place to meet," Tom says when they're done. "Jonny'll probably see you first and guess that we sent you."

"Can you remember all that?" Wentz asks, suddenly anxious. "I know it's a lot, but it's – "

Ryan stares at him. "I'm not an idiot."

Wentz is very still for a moment, and Ryan shrinks away from him instinctively. Shit, shit, _shit_ , he _forgot_ , they were talking to him like a regular man, like a _person_ and he forgot –

Wentz laughs, and Ryan is startled into breathing again. "Fair enough," Wentz says. "Ready?"

While they were talking, Martin has led one of the horses over and is standing to the side patiently. He doesn't pass the reins to Ryan right away.

"We just told you a lot of dangerous information," he says.

"Patrick," Wentz begins.

But the servant – Martin, Patrick, Mr. Stumph, whoever the hell he is – waves a hand to shush him. "Now, I don't think you're stupid enough to try to take that information and run to somebody else. But just in case you are, remember that no matter what you know, most people won't see anything except a pretty courtesan slave to fuck or sell."

" _Patrick_ ," Wentz says again.

"We're not going to hurt you," Patrick says. It almost sounds like a threat, though his tone is mild. "And we won't hurt your friend. We'll set you both free – unless you fuck us over. This is too important to risk that." He holds out the reins to Ryan. "Here. I'll give you a leg up."

Ryan takes a step forward, but Wentz sticks out a hand to stop him. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

Ryan freezes. Chains, he thinks. Shackles. A fucking _collar_. Something to bind him, they can't be sending him away this easily, not like this.

But Wentz is leaning into the carriage and muttering something to himself, and when he turns around again he makes a face and shrugs off his jacket. "It's fucking cold at night," he says as he unbuttons his shirt and strips it off. "It's not much, but it'll help. Here." He holds the shirt out to Ryan.

Ryan stares at it.

"Take it," Wentz says. "We're not sending you into the fucking mountains half-naked."

Patrick, still holding the reins of the horse, rolls his eyes impatiently. "Take it, kid."

"Ryan," says Wentz. "His name is Ryan."

"Fine. _Ryan_ , please take Pete's stupid shirt so we can get the hell out of here." Patrick looks around anxiously, as though he expects a squad of soldiers to burst from the trees at any moment. "It's not safe to hang around in the middle of the fucking road."

Ryan looks at Wentz, then he reaches for the shirt, slips it on and buttons it up quickly. It's a fine, soft fabric, the nicest piece of clothing he's ever worn, still warm from Wentz's body heat.

Wentz puts his jacket back on but doesn't bother doing up the buttons. "Looks better on you than it does on me," he says with a grin. "Ready?"

Ryan doesn't need Patrick's help mounting the horse, but he steps into the offered hand and swings his leg over the horse's back. The horse, a big black gelding, shies a little under him, but Ryan keeps his seat. He looks down at the three men and thinks he should say something, _anything_ , but before he can open his mouth Tom says, "Tell Jonny to keep his sorry ass out of trouble for five fucking minutes if he can manage it, or I'm going to be seriously pissed next time I see him." He looks pale and winces with pain when he moves, but he seems to be waiting for an answer so Ryan nods.

Wentz slaps the horse's hindquarters, and Ryan takes that as his cue to leave. He's about a hundred yards down the road, heading back the way they've just come, when it occurs to him he could have said _thank you_ , or at least _good-bye_. But it's too late now; when he glances back Wentz has helped Tom into the carriage and Patrick has climbed up to the driver's seat again.

It's about two miles down the road to the first landmark Tom named. _It's an old farm_ , Tom had said, speaking clearly despite being in obvious pain. _Half a mile before the bridge, there's a break in the stone wall._ Ryan reaches the bridge before he realizes he should be looking for a break in the wall, but it's easy enough to find when he backtracks. _Ride through the old orchard, past the house and all the outbuildings, and there's another break on the far side of the property. That one's a little harder to find._

The farm has been abandoned for years by the looks of it, and the trees in the orchard are barren but it still smells sickly-sweet, the scent of rotten fruit freshly thawed. It takes Ryan a few minutes to find the break in the wall on the opposite side. It's well hidden by fallen branches and crumbled stones, and he has to dismount and clear some of it away so the horse can pass through without stumbling. It's surprisingly hard work. He's not used to doing physical labor – _worth more on your hands and knees, pretty_ – and after several minutes he's panting hard and cursing under his breath every time he scrapes his knuckles. The horse watches him impassively, and it doesn't offer any argument when Ryan takes the reins and leads it through the gap.

On the other side, Ryan hesitates before climbing onto the horse's back again. Maybe he should hide the gap in the wall. Wentz didn't say whether anybody would be following him. If it's soldiers they're running from, Ryan really would rather not have any of them find him. He's been owned by a brothel near a fort; he knows what soldiers are like.

So he lets the horse graze and tugs the branches and stones back into place. It doesn't look like it did, but he doesn't think it looks like an obvious path to follow either. _There's no trail through the woods_ , Tom had said. _Go due east until you reach the river, then turn south, toward the mountains._

"East," Ryan murmurs, patting the horse's warm neck. "Then south."

A bird bursts from high branches overhead, wheeling toward the sky with a furious high-pitched chatter. Ryan's head snaps up, his entire body tense. His heart is thudding painfully in his chest and his mouth is suddenly dry.

Just a bird, he thinks wildly. Just a fucking bird, nothing else, he scared it and it's just a bird and there's nothing –

The bird is gone from sight, vanished into the dull gray sky, and the woods are quiet. But not completely silent: there are birds singing distantly, insects humming. Some memory stirs in his mind, suggesting that's a good thing. He was never very good at hunting, and he doesn't remember anything he was supposed to learn. He only remembers the battle of wills with his father before every hunt, fighting and sulking and demanding to be allowed to bring Spencer along, the acrid smell of gun smoke and shattering blasts in his ear, staying up late whispering and giggling by the fire and pretending not to care the next day when his father lectured him about how he would do better in life, make better friends and more useful acquaintances, if he didn't spend so much time in the company of an ignorant slave.

( _He's not ignorant_ , Ryan had retorted once, when he was feeling particularly defiant. _I taught him to read._ His father's face had flushed red with anger, but it quickly turned calculating. _Good_ , he'd said, nodding slowly. _He'll be worth more when we have to get rid of him, maybe in a year or two._ Ryan had stormed out of the house and gone straight to the garden, planning to vent at Spencer like he always did when he fought with his father. But when he got to the garden he stopped just outside the fence. Spencer was on his knees between rows of beanstalks, pulling up weeds and tossing them carelessly over his shoulder. He was covered with dirt and the sun was in his hair, and Ryan recognized the shirt he was wearing as one of his own hand-me-downs, mended so many times it was more stitches than cloth, stretched too tight over Spencer's shoulders. Instead of opening the gate to the garden Ryan stepped to the side, off the path and into the shade of a willow tree where Spencer couldn't see him and ask what was wrong.)

The horse nudges Ryan's shoulder, its big brown eyes almost curious, and Ryan shakes himself. He's wasting daylight, standing here like a fucking idiot daydreaming in the middle of the forest, and he has a long way to go before he finds this Walker fellow, even longer before the man takes him to the rendezvous. The rendezvous where they're taking Spencer. That's the only thing that matters.

Ryan gets back on the horse and turns its nose east, and he rides for an hour or so until he reaches the river. He stops for only a moment to let the horse drink, then rides south, toward the mountains rising in a dark green ridge above the forest. _Cross three tributaries,_ Tom said, _and you'll come to a road. You need to follow the road for a while, but don't ride right on it. That close to the border, if somebody sees you they'll start asking questions._

The sun is setting somewhere behind the clouds by the time Ryan reaches the road. He doesn't see any other travelers, but he follows Tom's advice and stays off the road as it winds into the foothills.

In the twilight he rides right past the next landmark, but he doesn't realize it until he reaches a fork in the road Tom never mentioned. He backtracks and rides along more slowly, peering into the forest and searching. _Look for a gap in the hill, a gulley between two cliffs_ , Tom had said. He almost rides by again, but the horse's hooves clatter over jagged rocks that fell down from above. He jumps down and leads the horse up the steep slope. The horse's footsteps echo from the stone walls, so loud that Ryan keeps glancing back to make sure nobody has heard them.

 _At the top, there's a pond. That's where you need to wait. If you get there tonight you should beat Jon, and if not – well, if you hear gunshots, get the fuck out of there._

The pond is dark and flat; there is no moonlight and all the stars are hidden by clouds. Ryan lets the horse drink, wandering a few steps away to stare into the water. His reflection is no more than a shadowy, wavering silhouette but it's enough to remind him. He drops to his knees and splashes water on his face. The water is shockingly cold and he gasps with surprise, but he scrubs at the kohl and rouge until his skin hurts and his hands are numb from the chill. When he's done the sleeves of Wentz's fine shirt are soaked through and his hair is dripping in strands, but there's no more slick, greasy paint on his face.

Ryan stands up shakily and walks a few steps away from the pond, finds a flat boulder, sits down and waits.

After a few minutes, he starts to shiver. The night is cold, and he was stupid; he should have been more careful, kept his shirt and hair away from the water, they'll take forever to dry on a night like this. He draws his knees up to his chest and hugs his legs, tucks his face into the crook of his arm to warm his nose. The horse is grazing quietly nearby, its hooves clicking softly on the stones, and Ryan's glad for its presence. He knows the road isn't very far away, but in the darkness, in this quiet little valley, it feels like he's the only person in the world.

He could leave. There is no master here. No guards, no chains, no cages. There's nothing keeping him here – nothing except his word, and his hope that the men weren't lying about where they were taking Spencer. Nothing but hope.

It's been a long time since Ryan believed in hope. He feels a strange, sudden laughter rising in his chest, and he clamps his hand over his mouth before he can make a sound.

He hears the voice first. It's low for him to understand the words, but it's definitely a man's voice. There are footsteps as well, and hooves on stone. His horse hears it too, its ears perked up with interest. Ryan rises to his feet nervously. He doesn't have any kind of weapon and he thinks he should, something, _anything_ , in case this isn't Walker or Walker isn't friendly or they were lying. He looks around quickly and finds a sturdy dead branch. Then he goes back to stand beside his flat boulder and wait.

His horse whinnies in greeting when the other horse approaches. There's a man leading it through the gulley. He stops abruptly, looking first at Ryan's horse, then at Ryan. It's too dark to read his expression, but Ryan can tell from his posture that he's surprised, wary, ready to fight or flee.

"Are you Jon Walker?" Ryan asks. His voice is rough; he readjusts his grip on the stick.

The man takes a few steps forward, tugging the horse behind him. Closer, Ryan can see him better; he's shorter than Ryan expected, with a well-trimmed beard and strong shoulders, and he doesn't look frightened to find Ryan waiting there, only very curious. He glances down at the stick Ryan is holding, then back up at Ryan's face. "Do I know you?"

"Are you?" Ryan asks.

" _Ryan_?" There's a clatter of footsteps on the stones behind the man, and another person emerges from the shadows. Brendon. His arms are full of sticks, but he drops them all and jumps over the heap, launches himself at Ryan and throws his arms around him. Ryan's goes instantly, completely still, too shocked to move – nobody hugs him, nobody _touches_ him except to hurt, except to – nobody but Spencer, but Spencer is different, he's _allowed_ , and this isn't – Brendon seems to pick up on his panic right away and he lets go just as quickly, babbling, "Oh, god, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to – I'm just – what are you doing here? Before we left, I told, I told Patrick to get you out of there and he said he would, but I didn't – Ryan? What the hell are you doing here?"

Ryan's mind is whirling. "You told... You _know_ these people?" He's wondered why Brendon was bought first and all the others left behind, but he definitely didn't think Brendon would be on first-name basis with Lord Wentz's servant.

Brendon waves his hand vaguely. "Well, kind of. I used to know Patrick, but... It's a long story. Oh! Ryan, this is Jon. Jon, this is Ryan. He was – he was in the caravan too."

The other man steps forward and offers his hand, but Ryan is still holding the branch. "I guess that answers your question," Jon says, dropping his hand when Ryan doesn't take it. "You're looking for me?"

"Yes," Ryan says, forcing himself to concentrate. "I have a message for you, from Lord Wentz and, and Tom, and they said." He starts shivering again and clamps his mouth shut, takes a deep breath. "They said – "

"Hey," says Jon gently. "Hey, okay, you're freezing. We should – "

"You can't go, not the usual way," Ryan blurts out and _fuck_ , he's getting it all wrong. He rehearsed the damn message all day in his mind, but he can't, he can't say it, he didn't really believe he would find this Jon guy at all – _they could have been lying_ – and Brendon is here. Brendon is acting like he's _happy_ to see Ryan, and Ryan can't make the words come out. "There's a warrant, for you, you can't – "

"Are we in danger right here?" Jon asks. "Right now?"

"I... no," says Ryan, shaking his head. That wasn't part of the message; he was supposed to find Jon here because it was a safe place. "I don't think so."

"Okay," Jon says calmly. "You've got a message, we've got blankets and food, and Brendon's got firewood. Let's make camp, and once we get you warmed up you can give me the message."

Ryan nods but he stays rooted to the spot, even when Jon gathers up the wood Brendon dropped and wanders away to build a fire.

Brendon touches Ryan's arm lightly. "It's okay," he says. "Jon's a good guy."

 _How do you know?_ Ryan doesn't ask. _How can you be sure?_ Jon doesn't look threatening, crouched on his heels by the careful pile of dry sticks, his face illuminated suddenly as he lights a match and leans down to blow on the kindling.

"It's okay," Brendon says again. "You really do look like you're freezing." He gives Ryan a long look, then walks over to the fire and kneels beside Jon.

Ryan can't remember the last time anybody cared so much if he was cold – anybody except Spencer, but Spencer isn't here.

He nods, even though neither of them are looking at him, and he says, "Okay," even thought it's too quiet for them to hear. He goes to join them by the fire.

_

 _  
**iii.**   
_

Spencer's lost Ryan.

It's dark in the wagon with the other injured slaves. There's absolutely no way he can sit that won't hurt his back somehow, and in the corner there's a woman dying. She's been dying slowly for weeks, thinks Spencer, though he can't be sure because he can't remember her name. It might have been someone else. The master had them dig a couple of graves about ten days ago, but when he tries to picture what the bodies looked like, they're pale, naked, fishlike things, blank ovals for faces.

He's getting hysterical. He can't do that, that's what Ryan does. Ryan's probably panicking right now, in that Ryan way which involves going very quiet and stiff and tight-lipped.

Spencer puts his head in his hands and breathes into the warm cavern of his fingers, and tries not to think about the fact that two days ago someone was actually being nice to them for once, talking to them like they weren't heading straight for the silver mines. (Spencer has no illusions. He's always known where they'll end up.) The bandages Brendon put on his back are probably disgusting by now. He has no idea what's happened to Brendon.

He tries not to think morbid things, but it's difficult. The voice in the back of his mind that whispers at him in quiet moments ever since they got taken is always a lot louder without Ryan there to stamp it down, when he can't worry about making sure Ryan eats and sleeps, protecting him from the meanest guards and convincing him not to get himself killed. His memory chants names at him - his mom and dad first, and Brent killed in the raid, then his sisters sold together three weeks later - people he hasn't seen in years, hasn't thought about in months, and now Ryan too. Ryan's gone too, and there's no one left.

The wagon stops moving. There's some yelling outside. The dying woman moans. None of the slaves bother to look up.

Eventually the door opens. "For fuck's sake, they're all injured!" someone shouts. "They're no use to you! Lord Wentz'll have something to say about this."

"Wentz can take it up with the law," says the newcomer. He's wearing a soldier's uniform. "I'm in charge around here and I say if they're healthy enough to stand, they're healthy enough to work. We need gravediggers, and if they're sick already it won't matter if they catch the fucking plague. I'm requisitioning the lot of them."

"You can't do that!"

But apparently he can, or perhaps Wentz's men don't feel like fighting for a cartload of injured slaves. The soldier shakes his head over the dying woman and leaves her where she is, but he rouses the rest of them into the open air where his squad is hanging about with an aura of bored menace. He's kind about it, doesn't hit anyone. It could be worse.

Spencer keeps his head down, looks at the grass under his feet. It's plague country. There are soldiers. He doesn't know anyone and no one will help him. He doesn't even know which way he could go.

And, he decides at that moment, he's going to run away the first chance he gets. If they catch him they can do what they fucking well like, he doesn't care. He's lost Ryan, so why not?

He listens with half an ear as Wentz's men demand the name of the soldiers' commander, as though they actually believe they can do something about it. But they give up eventually. They're outnumbered and out-armed, and a handful of injured slaves isn't going to make a dent in their lord's wealth. They ride away with the mostly-empty wagon behind them, glaring back at the soldiers ineffectively.

One of the soldiers brandishes a whip while the others rope the slaves together. It's better than shackles, but it still makes it difficult to walk. As soon as all the knots are tied the man with the whip barks, "Forward, _march_." The slaves move forward, a shambling parody of a regiment.

They haven't gone half a mile when it starts to rain. Spencer risks looking up just long enough to glare balefully at the sky. The road is soon slicked with mud, and all around slaves are stumbling and slipping. Spencer places each foot carefully and doesn’t try to help anyone else, even when the man just behind him falls. He knows how that ends, that it will be worse for both of them if the soldiers notice, so he only tugs forward on the rope until the man finds his feet again.

The soldiers keep them moving until well after dark. The rain doesn't stop, and everywhere they go, every farm they pass, they're surrounded by the scent of death and disease. They are smoldering piles that might have been funeral pyres, no longer tended, and fresh mounds in the ground where bodies have been quickly buried.

When they finally stop, one of the soldiers comes down the line. Some of the slaves are sinking to their knees gratefully, but even though Spencer's tired enough he thinks he might actually fall over, he remains standing, his gaze firmly fixed on the ground. The soldier is picking slaves out of the line, untying everybody who hasn't fallen unconscious from exhaustion already and pointing them off the road.

Spencer goes as he's ordered. He doesn't even look up until a soldier shoves a wooden board into his hand. Then he squints through the rain dripping over his face, and the stench hits him. It's a grave, a massive grave, maybe an entire village. Spencer closes his eyes for a second and listens to the soldier shout. The earth is nothing but sticky mud, the bodies have been lying in the open for a few days at least. It's too dark to see anything properly, the rain fills every new hole instantly, and there are no shovels, only flat boards and bare hands.

But the soldiers don't want to get any closer to the grave than they have to.

And Spencer, like all the other slaves picked out to dig that night, is untied.

He kneels on the ground and begins to dig, glancing up surreptitiously every few seconds. He counts the guards, watches their paces, studies what he can see of the nighttime landscape. It's stupid and dangerous. He won't get very far. He can barely lift his arms to dig, much less make a run for it to escape a squad of healthy, well-fed, well-armed soldiers.

But it's dark, he's not shackled, and he can't think of a single fucking reason he shouldn't try.

It takes him maybe twenty minutes - half a hole dug - to decide on a plan. It takes him another twenty minutes to dig the hole deep enough that it'll make a decent grave and give him a reason to be moving. The rain is getting heavier, freezing cold drops sliding down his face, and he can barely see ten feet in front of him. That's good. It means the soldiers can't see either. In fact, they're probably worse off than he is, because they've got lanterns. Their night vision is going to be _fucked._

He stands up straight and feels thankful for the cold rain on his back that makes the burn from his injuries bearable. He picks up his board and puts it over his shoulder. He's got one chance to do this. He walks slowly towards the main heap of bodies, lets himself stumble a little, cringe a little, in case anyone's looking.

Then he walks straight past the corpses. There's only one guard standing on the other side, rubbing his hands together and stamping his feet against the cold. He's avoiding looking directly at the gruesome pile of the dead - superstition, or fear of the plague, or maybe just the fact that they're _really fucking creepy_. Spencer doesn't know, and he definitely doesn't care. It means the guard isn't watching properly. He doesn't see Spencer walk up silently behind him, and he crumples instantly when Spencer hits him over the head with the board.

Spencer's first instinct is to run at once, but he tramples it down. He grabs the guy's hat, boots, weapons, and thick military-issue coat and puts them on quickly. Then he drags the unconscious soldier by the leg towards the dead bodies, drops him among the nearest ones and picks up a body - a dead girl slave, so thin she weighs nearly nothing at all, traces of thick sloppy paint clinging to her gaunt plague-eaten face and a branded P on her shoulder that means Public, common property - and drops it on top of him. There. It'll be morning before they find him, if they find him at all.

Spencer's probably just given him whatever disease that girl had. He might have given himself whatever disease that girl had. He concentrates on the plan.

By the time the soldiers pacing the perimeter come by a couple of minutes later, all there is to see is one guy in uniform with his face muffled by his collar. Spencer gives them a salute; they salute back and hurry on. They don't want to hang around the corpses either. He waits another ten minutes, until the lights from their lanterns are as far from him as they're going to get, then puts his own lantern down and walks off into the night.

Dead grass crackles under his feet: his own breathing sounds unbelievably loud in his ears. He doesn't run. There's a good chance they'll hear someone running and wonder why. He walks and walks and walks, and when he reaches a narrow river, when he turns and looks, the soldier's lanterns are only distant pricks of light through the thin, scrubby trees.

He exhales slowly, once, and starts to run.

He doesn't worry about being tracked. The rain comes thicker, faster, washing him in ice-cold water, washing his footsteps away.

[Chapter Three](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/1482.html)


	4. But Not the Song (3/17)

_  
**But Not the Song (3/17)**   
_   
[Story Index and Warnings](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/446.html)

[Chapter Two](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/1051.html)

  
_  
**iv.**   
_

Spencer keeps moving through the night. He doesn't really know where he's going, but he has some vague idea of going back to where the caravan last stopped, where the lord in the gaudy carriage took Ryan away. _Back to Ryan, back to Ryan,_ the words echo in his mind with every step, every rasping breath. It's the only plan he has.

It's still raining when day breaks, and sunrise is no more than a subtle shift in the shade of gray overhead. Spencer picks his way carefully through the woods. The forest floor is too rough, the hillside too steep, and the last thing he needs to do is break his leg in a fall. He tries to stay alert, listening for unfamiliar sounds and watching for movement in the weak morning shadows. But his entire body feels like it's rebelling against him, and it's all he can do to put one foot in front of another.

He stumbles over an unexpected dip in the ground and catches himself just before he falls, and then sits down heavily and closes his eyes. When his head stops spinning, he looks around again. The trees are thick here and the rain barely drips through. There are jagged boulders and rocks up the hill from him, nothing but moss-covered trees down slope, and Spencer can't even remember where the road is. He has no idea how far he's come.

He is, quite simply, completely fucking lost.

He stands up again, swaying unsteadily on the slick ground, and takes a few faltering steps down. The road might not be in the valley, but it's easier than walking uphill. He stops again to let a wave of dizziness pass and fuck, he can't remember when he last had something to eat. He's soaked to the skin and he can't even tell if his back is bleeding, and maybe he should rest, just for a few minutes.

Spencer stumbles over a fallen log and decides that's a good enough place to stop. He needs to figure out where he is. He needs to _think_. He needs to figure out where Wentz went after he left the caravan. There can't be too many places around suitable for a nobleman to stay. Spencer can find him. The man has Ryan, and Spencer can find him.

After he rests. It's hard to stay upright on the log, so he slips to the ground. The scrape of the wood against his back sends a fresh roar of pain all through him, and a weak, pathetic moan escapes his lips. He's not sheltered from the rain, not hidden if anybody comes by, but he curls onto his side and covers his face with his arm, shuddering and gasping and fighting down the nausea.

He's cold, so fucking cold it aches, and he jerks himself awake a few times, afraid of slipping into sleep. Each time it's harder to fight back to consciousness. He's in forest, in the rain, matted dead leaves under him and a dead log at his back, but his thoughts are slippery and confused. He remembers another forest, another rainy day, hunting dogs baying in the distance and Ryan trying to convince him to sneak away while the men followed the dogs, the mixture of fear and excitement he felt and Ryan's dad was snapping at Ryan to pay attention, his eyes skating over Spencer as though he didn't see him at all. His words are short, sharp, and the shots from the hunting rifles are deafening, like the crack of a whip, like the clash of metal on metal. Spencer doesn't open his eyes, doesn't uncover his face, but he knows the trees are crowding around him, blocking out the daylight and closing into an impenetrable wall, and his breath is coming quick and painful but he can't make it stop, he can't get away, because he knows this place too.

He knows it, he _knows_ \- the walls on every side and rattling of metal doors, the moldy pallet underneath him and ceiling too low overhead. He knows, and it's gone so dark, so fucking dark, when he tries to make his eyes focus it's like he's sliding between two worlds, the one where he's cold and wet under the dark trees and the grey sky, and the darkness behind his eyelids where there's no light and too little air, where the night is filled with the sound of scared, hushed breathing in the darkness, where they keep the slaves who work at the mill, in a long row of cells in the basement, each small box brick on three sides, bars on the fourth.

Every night after they've been shoved back in, the mill owner's son drags a stick along the bars, one end to the other, and grins when they all cower at the rattling sound. Spencer and Ryan are shoved in a cell together right at the end of the row, new (stolen) purchases still in need of discipline. They talk to each other only in whispers, long after the lanterns have been put out and the masters have gone. Spencer doesn't want their owners to see them talking; if the owners think they're friends, they'll get split up, used against each other.

The first night, Ryan sits in the corner with his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped around them, and he doesn't move when the son draws his stick across the bars of their cell. The second night, he sprawls on his back on the floor and looks straight up at the ceiling, and he doesn't move again. Spencer, hunched on the narrow pallet that's supposed to be a bed for both of them, sees the expression that crosses the son's face and feels a wave of nameless dread. He whispers to Ryan later that he has to stop it, but Ryan only murmurs, "Stop what?" like he doesn't understand.

The third night, Ryan's stretched out on the floor again. He's got his eyes closed, one knee drawn up: he could be sprawled on the grass in the Ross garden, except for the shadows on his face, the ragged clothes he's wearing. He's free, thinks Spencer. He's meant to be free. When the master's son drags his stick across the bars, Ryan doesn't react with so much as a flicker of expression. The boy - he can't be much older than they are - makes a face and does it again. When Ryan still doesn't move, he wraps both his hands around the cell bars and rattles them.

Ryan opens his eyes and turns his head. Spencer's frozen in horror as he says, lazily, easily, directly to the son's face, "You know, I'm trying to decide if you're really that boring or if you're just very stupid. Do you think maybe it's both?"

The boy goes purple, frozen for a moment before he spins on his heel and storms off towards the steps that lead to the mill proper. Ryan laughs softly, and Spencer knows that everyone hears: the sound falls into the air like stones falling into water, leaving ripples that spread. The entire room is hushed with the sound of nearly three dozen slaves holding their breath as the master's son stops for an instant at the foot of the stairs.

Then he's gone. Spencer closes his eyes. "You shouldn't have done that," he whispers. "You shouldn't, Ry. You shouldn't have done that."

In the morning they take Ryan away.

Spencer's on his own for five days. It feels like the world's fallen away from him. They put him to work and he must do as he's told, because he doesn't get switched, but he barely remembers any of it. In the evenings he's unchained and shoved back into the cell. He lies flat on the pallet with his head buried in his arms and shakes, and when the master's son comes by each night he stops at Spencer's cage and snickers.

On the sixth day, long after the mill slaves have been put away for the night, after the son has completed his cruel personal ritual, a couple of men come down the stairs talking loudly and cracking jokes back and forth. One of them is carrying a lantern. Spencer can tell that much through his closed eyes; he doesn't move from where he's lying. Then there's a rattle, too loud and too close - they're unlocking the door, his door - and one of the men says, "Wake up, handsome, conjugal visit." Spencer sits up so quickly his head spins, and the other man shoves Ryan into the cell and slams the door closed with a clang.

 _Ryan._

He's on his knees at the edge of the cell, still - he's still being held, the man is holding him there through the bars, one hand knotted into his shirt, the other under his chin, turning his face up. "See how nice we can be when you're good?" he says.

Spencer can hear Ryan's breathing, fast and shallow, and he doesn't dare move, and the man who's holding Ryan shifts until he's got one hand wrapped around one of the cell's iron bars, the fingers of the other hooked through - through Ryan's _collar_ , fuck, everything about this is wrong, _everything_ , and Ryan just hangs there, kneeling, not struggling for an instant against the pressure on his throat.

"What do you say?" says the man.

"Don't mess around, mate, it's too late at night. He'll still be here in the morning," says his companion. He sounds bored.

" _What do you say?_ " the man holding Ryan repeats, and tugs on the collar.

Ryan gasps a little. Spencer's hands clench into fists. He's this close to moving, to grabbing Ryan and dragging him back, away, into a safe corner, when Ryan squeezes his eyes shut and whispers, "Thank you."

His captor laughs cruelly and lets him go, and Ryan immediately sways back and starts to collapse, curling up on himself. All thoughts of fighting fly out of Spencer's head, he just has to _get to Ryan_ , and he barely even notices the two men laughing again as they leave. He drags Ryan into his lap - Ryan is unresisting, a heavy lump - and manages to get him half upright so he can see his face. Spencer's fingers rub across Ryan's cheekbones and come away darkened, slightly sticky with paint, and his stomach churns. " _Ryan_ ," he whispers.

Ryan has to make an effort to focus on him, he can tell. "Spencer," he says, his voice so ragged, so quiet. "They said you were -"

"I'm _here._ "

Ryan shivers and starts to go limp: Spencer catches him, drags him close, makes him lie down beside him on the pallet. He feels Ryan's hands move, making convulsive clutching motions, and catches one of them, brings it up to curl around his neck. "I'm here," he repeats, and holds Ryan tighter. His hand brushes against the leather of the collar, and a metal shape that he thinks might be a padlock. He feels sick. There's nothing he can do. "I'm here," he says a third time. Ryan lies still in his arms.

In the morning they take Ryan away again.

"Don't worry," says one of the men who comes for him. "You'll get him back tonight, so long as he behaves." He grins at Spencer. He seems to think he's being kind.

Then the dream's changing direction, going backwards, and he's staring at Ryan on his knees again, and now there are bruises, Ryan's arms are hanging limp by his sides and there are bruises like bracelets round his wrists. "I'm here, I'm here," he tries to say, tries to reach out, but he's not, he's not there at all, every time he blinks he sees the lacework of tree branches overhead and the pale half-light filtering between them.

Ryan's looking at him now. He looks frightened, he's trying to reach out just like Spencer is but Spencer's hands pass straight through him, and Spencer says, "I'm here," but Ryan doesn't hear him. He's mouthing something Spencer can't catch, and there are swirls of acid color around his eyes suddenly, and the men are walking away laughing. The men are walking away and the cage door swings closed and suddenly Ryan's on the other side of the bars and Spencer can't reach him at all, and he doesn't know which one of them's inside.

It's the sound of the door clanging shut that wakes him up.

It rings so loud in his ears he's bolting upright before his mind is fully conscious, and he's scrabbling at the damp ground, scratching into the mud with his fingers, grasping blindly for Ryan and finding nothing to hold on to before he realizes - not there, not at the mill. _Not there anymore._

It's night and the forest is dark, but there are no walls around him, no door barred and locked to keep him in. He's alone, so cold it's an effort to move his hands, to convince his legs to stand, but the rain has stopped for the moment. It takes him several minutes to get his bearings. He must've slept - _dreamed_ \- all day, but his mind feels no clearer and every decision pulls at his chest like a sharp hook. Move or stand, left or right, uphill or down, over the log or around. He trips every fifth step and feels the bandages on his back coming unstuck, ripping away the scabs and mud, the wounds seeping blood again.

Spencer decides on downhill; it's easier, even with the risk of tumbling face-forward into the valley. He walks until he finds a river, follows the river until he finds a road. It's nearing morning and he's not on the road for half an hour before he hears horses approaching from behind. He dodges into the bushes, rolling over painfully and holding his breath until they past. He doesn't look to see who it is, doesn't want to risk lifting his head. He waits until he can't hear the hoof beats anymore, staggers to his feet again and reconsiders.

The road isn't safe. Spencer isn't even sure the road goes where he wants it to go. He thinks Wentz's men said something about heading toward the mountains - but that makes no sense, nobody brings slaves _toward_ the mountains, maybe he imagined it. Maybe he didn't. The words are a jumble in his mind, nonsense mixed with sudden-sharp clarity. But the clouds have lifted enough that he can actually see the mountains, dark and menacing to the south.

Toward the mountains, then. But not along the road. It's not safe on the road. Those riders were probably soldiers; there aren't many other people about. And it'll be better, he thinks, if he can get a sense of the lay of the land. If he can climb a ridge to see, to find a vantage point, and he's proud of the decision at first but he regrets it before he's gone half a mile. His legs are so tired he's shaking and he's dizzy with hunger, sweating despite the chill, and the soldier's wet uniform feels like it's made of lead. But he doesn't stop. He keeps climbing - it'll be better when he can see, this is unfamiliar land and he needs to _see_ \- pausing to rest every few minutes, catching himself with surprise each time he gets turned around and starts downhill again.

"Stupid, stupid," he mutters under his breath. His mouth is dry and his head is pounding. He wonders if he can bend over well enough to drink from a puddle in the ground, or if he'll be able to stand up again if he tries. " _Stupid_."

The word falls into the heavy silence of the forest around him, and Spencer goes still.

He looks up and turns his head slowly. He tries to steady his breath, to quiet its rasping, to listen of the blood roaring in his ears.

He hasn't been paying attention. He should be _listening_ but he hasn't been and now there's something - there's something wrong about the forest.

He shivers and the hair on the back of his neck stands up. There's something - _someone_ \- but he can't, he can't see anybody, hear anything. Just silence. Raindrops falling from branches, his own ragged breath, silence. It's light enough now - when did it get light? he can't remember the dawn - and he can see into the trees around him. Shadows and shapes, none of them moving, nothing lying in wait, nothing _watching_. He's imagining things.

He takes another five steps, stops to breathe, another ten.

And he sees the footprints.

Footprints.

There are footprints in the mud. _Fresh_ footprints, only just filling up with rainwater, still sharp around the edges.

Spencer's heart begins thudding painfully in his chest. He looks around wildly and reaches for the soldier's pistol at his belt. But he doesn't have time to draw it. There's a flicker of movement to his left, a dark shadow moving against the colorless forest. Before he can turn to face it he hears a grunt, sees something swinging toward him, and everything goes dark.

When Spencer comes to, he's lying on his side, bound hand and foot. There's a man sitting beside him, holding the pistol in one hand. Spencer struggles briefly against the ropes, but every movement sends waves of pain down his injured back and makes his head throb, so he gives up quickly.

"Good morning," the man says. "Well, afternoon, really. You've been out for a while."

The man isn't wearing a uniform. He looks like a servant, his clothes plain but in good condition, and he has a well-trimmed beard and sturdy boots. He looks just as damp and cold as Spencer feels but doesn't seem particularly bothered by it. He holds the gun like he knows how to use it, but he's not pointing it at Spencer.

"The thing I don't understand is," the man goes on conversationally, "where's the rest of your squad? There isn't anybody else around for a couple of miles, and normally I'd think a soldier out alone is a scout. But if you're a scout, you're pretty fucking lousy at it. I followed you for about a mile and you had no idea. So, what, are you lost?"

Spencer stares at the man in confusion. _Squad,_ he thinks. _Soldier. Scout_. He has no fucking clue what this man is talking about. Instead of answering, he looks around, turning his head carefully; the asshole hit him so hard he can barely see straight. They're in a cave of sorts - a couple of large boulders leaning together, really, but it forms a roof and the ground beneath them is dry. Spencer twists, trying to see farther, but the motion tugs painfully at his back and his vision blurs.

The man sets the gun down carefully out of reach and stands up, takes a few steps toward Spencer. Spencer flinches and goes perfectly still, trying to relax, to go limp; it always hurts worse if you hold yourself rigid and fight it.

The man stops and holds his hands up. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm going to help you sit up," he says.

"You could untie me instead," says Spencer. His voice sounds like a rasp.

"I don't think so." The man smiles a little. "No offense, but I've only just convinced myself not to cut your throat until we've had a chance to talk, so that'll have to wait. I'm just going to..."

He puts one hand on Spencer's arm and hooks to other one around Spencer's shoulders. At first Spencer is too tired to consider fighting, and a split-second later all thoughts of doing so fly out of his mind. The man isn't being rough on purpose, but the pressure of his arm against Spencer's back is a sudden, fiery reminder of the unhealed wounds. Spencer can't stop the moan that escapes, and he clamps down on the surge of nausea that roils through him.

"Whoa, whoa, hey." The man sounds strangely distant, like he's talking underwater, but Spencer can hear his alarm. "Hey, stay with me. You still here? Don't pass out now that I've gone through all this trouble to get you upright."

Spencer doesn't bother responding. He breathes through his nose slowly until he's sure he's not going to vomit or pass out. Something brushes over his face - the man's hand, cool and surprisingly gentle.

"Shit, you're burning up. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Spencer doesn't much feel like answering, but when the man slides around behind him and tugs at the back of his shirt, he manages to snarl, "Get the fuck away from me."

The man doesn't back off, doesn't even flinch, and it just pisses Spencer off more. The man peels Spencer's shirt up, cold wet cloth separating from filthy bandages and sticky blood. "Holy fuck," the man says. "Are you - _fuck_ , no wonder you can barely keep yourself upright. You must've pissed off your squad commander pretty good to earn that."

 _Oh_. It finally clicks into place. Weapons, uniform, boots. The man thinks he's a soldier - a soldier running away from his squad, apparently, and the man doesn't sound very impressed by that. If Ryan were here, he'd be rolling his eyes and muttering something about irony, but he's not and Spencer is mostly thinking about falling over again.

"Fuck," the man says. "Fuck fuck _fuck_. Of all the stupid... What the hell am I supposed to do with you?"

"You could _let me go_ ," Spencer tries, but the words slide into a gasp of pain. He wants to pull away from the man at least but can't find the strength, and he's slumping sideways instead. The man catches him automatically. He's warm, amazingly warm - Spencer thinks _burning up_ and wait, wasn't that about him? He's not burning, he's freezing everywhere except for the hot pain in his back. He doesn't know what the fuck the man's talking about.

"Shit, shit, fuck," the man's muttering, and then, "You're an idiot, Walker, what are you?" and there's a faint tickle at Spencer's wrists. "I'm going to untie your hands, okay?" says the guy. "Don't try to hit me. You don't have a chance in hell even if you do manage to get away. You need to get out of those wet clothes before you freeze to death."

"Don't need anything," Spencer manages to growl, but he doesn't try to fight once his hands are free - doesn't think he could, his arms feel like lead weights. The man rubs at Spencer's numb wrists once the rope falls away, shakes his head and mutters, "Fuck," again. Spencer blinks slowly and wishes the roaring in his ears would quiet down a little so he could focus. Then he could hit the man and take back the gun - he's small, Spencer thinks he could take him if he could just think straight. He'd make him give him food and tell him which way to go, and then he'd go find Ryan. The last bit of that thought is the most important. "Ryan," he says.

"No - what? No, I'm Jon," says the man. "You - what the hell were you thinking, anyway? You can't go wandering around out here, all the valleys are crawling with soldiers. You must know that." While he's talking he's removed Spencer's shirt and started carefully peeling off the sodden, bloody remains of the bandages. Spencer can't make himself listen anymore. It hurts when the bandages come away from his skin. He imagines what's left of his skin is falling away too, in long bloody strips between the wounds left by the lashes. He closes his eyes.

He's barely conscious of Jon easing him down onto the earth floor and dressing his wounds; he knows it hurts but it's so constant now, so familiar, and Jon is wincing and cursing enough for both of them as he discovers the extent of the bruises. "Not surprised you ran for it if this is what they do to you," he murmurs. "I thought only slaves got beaten up like this, fuck."

He still thinks Spencer's a soldier. Some part of Spencer's mind thinks that's probably a good thing. "Okay, just, easy now," says Jon, "I'm going to take the rest of your wet things off, get you under some blankets, all right? Just lie still." Spencer cracks his eyes open long enough to see Jon's boots walk past his face and back, then he closes them again. He's tired, and it's gotten too hot again all of a sudden.

It's later still the next time he swims up to half-consciousness, and something smells strongly of horse - _blanket_ , he thinks, and coughs a couple of times. Someone touches his forehead gently and says, "Fuck, you're freezing," and that makes Spencer want to giggle, because he said that to Ryan once, when they were forced to go out with the hunt and sleep in the woods overnight. Ryan had shivered and complained and made Spencer sleep next to him so they could share blankets. After he'd said it he'd felt his heartbeat speed up, because Ryan could easily have - but Ryan didn't, Ryan just laughed ruefully and shoved his cold nose into Spencer's shoulder and said, "Shut up, asshole," and Spencer said, "Make me."

Now the horse-smelling blanket rustles as Jon sighs and lies down next to Spencer, carefully avoiding the fresh bandages. "I really hope I don't regret saving your life," he says quietly to the back of Spencer's neck. He's warm. Really warm. Spencer can barely remember what warm feels like. And as if it's coming from a very long way away, he hears Jon add, "Ryan and Brendon had better get back _soon_ ," but that makes no sense. He's probably dreaming it.

_

 **  
_v._   
**

The soldier falls asleep, and Jon relaxes a bit. Not enough to let down his guard, but he closes his eyes and rests for a while, listening to the rain drip in the forest outside. The man is clearly in no shape to be a real danger, but Jon doesn't doubt he would be if he could. Jon can practically _see_ Tom rolling his eyes and remarking on the complete stupidity of helping a guy who's going to want to kill you as soon as he can hold a weapon.

Should have killed him when he had the chance, Jon thinks. He shifts a little, careful not to bump the man's back. It's warm enough under the blankets that the man probably doesn't need Jon's body heat anymore, but Jon doesn't feel like moving. It's still raining, still too fucking cold for spring, and he doesn't have anywhere to go until his scouts get back.

If they get back. Brendon claims to know his way around the woods at least a little bit, but the other one, Ryan - Jon has no idea what to make of him. Jon figures it's too much to ask that they find a clean escape route to get all of them over the pass and to the rendezvous.

They could be caught already. Runaway slaves, unfamiliar with the land, they're an easy target.

The soldier mumbles something in his sleep. Jon yawns and rolls out from under the blankets reluctantly, rubbing his arms and shivering. He tries to get the man to swallow some water, tucks the blankets around him again and moves to sit across the little cave. He's going through what little food he has when he hears voices outside.

Jon's head snaps up and he tilts his head to one side to listen. Twigs snap and leaves rustle, and Jon is reaching for the pistol when one of the voices carries more clearly: "Yes, this _is_ the place. Jon?"

Brendon. Jon jumps to his feet and starts to rush outside, but stops at the opening of the cave to listen some more. He hears Ryan say something he can't make out, Brendon answer, and the sound of two people dropping to the ground from horseback. It sounds like they're alone.

"Hey." Jon steps out of the cave. "You made it back."

Ryan glares at him - as far as Jon can tell that's his usual expression - but Brendon smiles and says, "Did you think we wouldn't?"

"I never doubted you," Jon lies easily. "Run into any trouble?"

"Nothing major," Brendon says with a wave of his hand. "Just a couple dozen soldiers, you know, nothing we couldn't -"

"Where did you get that?" Ryan speaks right over Brendon. He's staring at Jon - at the pistol Jon's still holding, and Jon's seen enough to know that it's nothing but fear that has the kid holding himself so still.

Jon tucks the gun into his waistband. "Speaking of soldiers, we have a little problem."

Brendon glances at Ryan, but Ryan is still watching Jon. Brendon asks, "What kind of problem?"

Jon gestures behind him. "Take a look. I caught his trail when I was getting water and followed him for a while, until he noticed me. I'm guessing he ran from his squad, but he's still got his uniform and weapons."

Brendon's mouth drops open in surprise. "There's a _soldier_ here? Are you - Jon, are you _crazy_? What if he gets away? What if he tells someone? I thought you said -"

Jon raises his hands. "Hey, calm down. He's in pretty bad shape. He's not going anywhere."

"But you said..." Brendon looks a little bit lost, but he just sighs and pushes by Jon into the cave, muttering, "Patrick didn't tell me you were _crazy_."

Ryan hasn't moved. "Why didn't you kill him?"

Jon says, "I don't like killing people, especially not people who need help."

"He would do worse to you."

Jon knows that Ryan knows perfectly well what worse soldiers can do, so he only says, "Maybe."

"You should have killed -"

"Ryan!" They turn at the sound of Brendon's voice rising unexpectedly, not scared but excited. "Ryan, I think you should come here."

Jon can see with a glance that Ryan is as confused as he is. Jon gestures with one hand, _after you_ , and follows Ryan into the cave.

Brendon is kneeling beside the man on the ground. "Ryan, look."

Jon is watching, so he sees the shock and disbelief that cross Ryan's face in the space of a heartbeat, then Ryan lets out a strangled, wordless sound and darts across the cave. He falls to his knees and grabs the man, pulling him close and kissing his temple, forehead, cheeks, saying the same name over and over again: "Spencer, god, Spencer, _Spencer_."

Jon is well aware that he's staring. A few minutes ago he would have put good money on Ryan not having any feelings that aren't fear and rage, everything else raped and beaten out him. But now - now he's shaking with relief and something that might be _joy_ , talking to the man - Spencer - imploring him to wake up.

"So, uh." Jon runs his hand through his hair and gives Brendon a helpless look. "Friend of yours?"

Brendon smiles crookedly. "He is _definitely_ not a solider, Jon Walker. His name is Spencer. He must've escaped or something and... Yeah. He's a friend."

Jon looks away from the tableau, Ryan bent over his friend, his normally expressionless shell cracked open on joy and relief and fear. It feels weirdly personal, like something he shouldn't be seeing. Ryan's been cool towards him in the few days since they've met, in a way that Jon only interprets as friendly because he can see Ryan's sharper, pricklier coolness around Brendon. But even friendly isn't _friends_.

"Are they -" he asks Brendon quietly.

"I don't know what they are," Brendon answers. "Except brave." His eyes are still fixed on the pair, with a faint longing expression that an hour ago Jon would have guessed was all for Ryan, but now he's not so sure. Brendon had told Jon about Ryan and Spencer during their nighttime ride. Not their names, only, "These other boys, slaves in the caravan like me except - except - except they're _brave_. The one, they paint his face and sell him to - to men, to brothels, you _know_ , but he doesn't stop fighting." _Brave_ , he said, repeating it fiercely as they rode through the cold, silent forest. Now Jon watches them like he thinks he can see what it is that makes them, and Jon knows that Brendon still doesn't quite believe he's not a slave any more - that he said _he was still fighting_ like it was a revelation.

He didn't understand it, meeting Ryan alone. But seeing Ryan with Spencer he's beginning to work out where he found the strength to fight.

He coughs awkwardly. "What about the pass? Any luck finding a way through?" he asks.

That gets Brendon's attention, and he drags his eyes away from Ryan and Spencer to answer. "Nothing. There are soldiers everywhere, and they're watching all the roads. We can't sneak through. Ryan had an idea -" He glances back at Ryan, but Ryan doesn't look up. "He thinks we should steal some clothes from the villages and go through in broad daylight."

"They know what I look like," Jon points out.

"But no one ever really looks at slaves," says Brendon. "If one of us were - if I pretended to be a gentleman discreetly transporting his new pleasure slave somewhere, and you're there to see to the horses -"

Jon nods. It's – it's not a good plan, it sounds like a _shitty_ plan, and there are a thousand things that could go wrong, but he doesn't see where they have much choice. He hadn't been surprised when he thought he'd found a soldier scouting in the woods: he won't be surprised when the actual soldiers come. They're going to. Jon needs to be gone before they get here. "Can you do it?" he says. "I mean –"

"Act?" says Brendon. "I – yeah, I think I can. I think – I mean, I used to be, with Lady –" He stops short. Brendon's never talked to Jon about his old owners, or how he knows Patrick, or why he was in that caravan. Jon hasn't asked. It's not his business, he thinks. Brendon's free now anyway.

"I know what to do," Brendon finishes instead. "I know how they act."

Jon nods again. If Brendon really can pull it off, and then their biggest problem is - "Spencer," he says, even as Brendon's continuing, "But now we've got Spencer, so I don't know if we could still do it."

On the other side of the cave, Ryan looks up suddenly, staring straight at Jon. He doesn't seem to have heard anything they've said. "He's sick," he says accusingly. "Spencer's sick, he's feverish, he doesn't." He swallows. "He won't wake up."

"You should let him sleep," says Jon.

"He needs help," Ryan snaps.

"I know. I know he does," Jon says. He pushes aside the sharp guilt he feels that only a few hours ago he was hoping Spencer would die in his sleep and save them all a lot of trouble. "We can get him to a doctor, but not without a way through the mountains."

"You know a doctor who will help?" asks Brendon. "I mean, who will help... us?"

The cautious disbelief in his voice makes Jon's heart ache. "Travis has spent most of his life taking care of runaway slaves. He'll help, I promise."

"After we get to the rendezvous," Brendon says. He says the word like it has magical powers, like it's an enchanted place in another land he wants to believe in.

"How the hell are we going to do that?" Ryan says. "We can't, not now, Spencer isn't -"

"He needs rest, Ryan," Brendon interrupts softly. "Just let him rest for a while."

"You don't fucking _know_ that," Ryan retorts. There's more fear than anger in his voice. "You don't know, you don't fucking know anything, he's feverish and he's hurt and..." He trails off and looks down, focusing on Spencer as though Jon and Brendon have disappeared entirely.

Jon takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. "Okay. Well, look, we can't steal anything from the nearest village until after dark anyway."

"I'm not leaving him," Ryan says without looking up.

"You don't have to," Brendon tells him quickly. "Jon and I will go, or I will if it's too dangerous for Jon, and you stay and be here when Spencer wakes up." To Jon he says, "Right? We don't - that is, unless you have another plan."

As much as Jon hates the idea of putting himself and Brendon in danger just to steal some stupid clothes, he can't think of anything else they can do. A risky plan is better than waiting around to be caught.

He says, "You're going to have be a really fucking convincing nobleman, you know." He keeps his voice teasing, but they both know it's not a joke.

"I know," says Brendon. Then he brightens into a smile. "I'll just pretend to be one of those brainless morons who were always coming around to court Lady Victoria. How hard can it be?"

He doesn't look right at Jon when he says it, but Jon hears it like the confidence it's meant to be anyway, and he feels strangely pleased that Brendon trusts him that much already. He knows at once who _Lady Victoria_ must be: the Asher place was one of the Cobra's oldest and best-organized safehouses until it got raided six months ago. Patrick used to carry messages from Pete to Lady Asher and from Lady Asher to Pete all the time, that'll be how he knows Brendon. Tom rode north a couple of times as well, though Jon never did.

But then Jon stumbles over an unexpected thought and has to turn and stare at Brendon: Brendon's not paying attention, he's going through their food stores, humming something under his breath as he checks their supplies, and Jon bites his lip and thinks, _He didn't know_. During the long ride to the province border to pass on the message about Pete's latest rescues, before they met up with Ryan and learned about the soldiers and their warrants, Jon had told Brendon about their secret operation. "The Cobra," he'd said, "it's called the Cobra -" and Brendon laughed in a quick, startled way and said, "That's a weird thing to call your conspiracy of do-gooders," and Jon could only agree and say, "Well, I didn't name it."

Brendon had no idea. He was a slave in Lady Asher's house, paraded about for all the suitors and admirers who buzzed around her, treated like a pet, maybe meant to be living proof of how very revolutionary and idealistic his mistress _wasn't_ – only in the end that hadn't worked, and Brendon had been seized along with the rest of the estate on the day of the raid and auctioned off as unwanted chattel, never knowing why.

 _Has anyone told him?_ Jon wonders, and then shakes his head, no, of course they haven't, there hasn't been time. The only people who could have said anything are Patrick and Jon himself. Jon opens his mouth, gets as far as, "Brendon?"

Brendon looks up. "Hmm?"

And – no, Jon can't, he's not going to. He doesn't even know how to begin that conversation. "How are we doing?" he says instead.

It turns out they have enough food to last a week, maybe. Jon can set traps for rabbits if he has to, but he'd rather not: smoke from a cooking fire is one more thing that'll give them away if anyone comes looking. So he sends up a silent prayer that Spencer will be well enough to move _soon_ , and when night falls, they set out to steal clothes.

Ryan takes one look at what they've got in the morning and pronounces it unworthy, and then turns back to Spencer, losing interest in them. Jon and Brendon exchange glances; that day they steal _more_ clothes, and three days later Jon considers himself practically professional when it comes to nabbing things off laundry lines while the local people are eating lunch. They have a mismatched pile in the cave which Ryan has mostly put on top of Spencer, trying to keep him warm while the fever advances and recedes.

It would be a little bit funny, thinks Jon, if it weren't all so serious. Sometimes Spencer is almost lucid, knows Ryan even if he doesn't know where they are; sometimes he stares at him blankly and flinches away from being touched; most of the time he sleeps. He is healing slowly. The wounds on his back no longer bleed and the fiery swelling has gone down, and after a few days he's able to sit upright, talk a little, take food and water when he stays awake long enough. But it's too little, too slow. Ryan's face gets whiter and whiter, and his voice gets sharper and sharper. He sleeps wrapped around Spencer, fingers resting on his neck. Brendon tries to talk to him but just gets snarled at, and when he starts to sing (Jon hasn't known Brendon long, but he's known him long enough to find out that sooner or later Brendon _always_ starts to sing) Ryan hisses at him to get the _fuck_ out. Brendon looks sickeningly, overwhelmingly hurt for a moment before he pulls himself together, says sorry normally, and goes.

Jon follows him. "He's just worried about his friend," he says.

Brendon nods. "I'm worried too," he says, and pulls a face, his mouth twisting. "I don't have any right, do I? I don't even really know them, it's just coincidence. That we ever met, I mean. I only spoke to Spencer one time."

Jon puts an arm around Brendon's shoulders and when Brendon makes a quiet noise and leans into it he turns it into a hug, lets Brendon hide his face in Jon's shoulder for a few moments. When Brendon finally pulls away his expression has gone stubborn, though his eyes are a little red. "I hate this," he says fiercely. "We need to _move_. We need to get away. Somewhere."

"To the rendezvous," agrees Jon.

"As soon as we can tie Spencer to a horse," Brendon murmurs. "As soon as we can. We have to _go_."

On the fifth day Jon comes back from an early morning scout to find Brendon carefully dressing himself in the stolen clothes, Ryan watching with tight lips and narrowed eyes, and Spencer awake and upright. More or less upright: he's leaning heavily on Ryan and is still wrapped up in the blanket and cast-off clothes, but he is awake and his eyes are alert when Jon comes into the cave.

"We're leaving today," Brendon says, buttoning his jacket. His face is slightly pink from scrubbing it in the stream and his hair is damp. "Spencer says he's well enough to ride."

Jon very much doubts the truth of that, but he's as anxious as Brendon to move on. "All right," he says. "I think we can get to the road without anybody seeing. And if we can't, well..."

"I'll make something up," Brendon says. He sounds surprisingly confident; he's holding his shoulders straight and keeping his head high. He's practicing already, slipping into character, and Jon lets himself believe for a fleeting second they might be able to pull this off.

"Tell them you were looking for mushrooms," says Spencer. His voice is weak and he sounds completely exhausted, like every word is a struggle, but he's speaking clearly. And, Jon realizes a second later, making a joke. Probably. It's a little hard to tell.

Brendon nods. "Noblemen are always looking for mushrooms. You're going to have to tell them you were injured doing a great service for the crown." They had decided that it was easier to attempt to use the uniform and try to pass Spencer off as a wounded soldier than to try to explain, should anyone ask, why Brendon was traveling with a bed slave, a personal groom, _and_ another, quite useless, servant or slave.

"We know," Ryan says dully. He closes his eyes, rests his cheek against the top of Spencer's head. Jon hasn't exactly been expecting a jubilant dance from Ryan when Spencer was ready to travel, but Ryan looks even more wrung-out and worried now. "We've been over it a thousand times."

"Now we've been over it a thousand and one," Brendon says, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. "C'mon, let's get Spencer into his -"

Ryan's eyes snap open. "I'll help him. We don't need - you get the horses ready."

"I can dress myself," Spencer says.

Ryan snorts with disbelief, and Jon silently agrees. But he only nods at Brendon, and they go out to ready the horses. His tack is old and worn, nothing any self-respecting nobleman would keep around, but at least Pete's carriage-horse and its saddle are fine enough for a gentleman, even if the handsome black gelding is slightly too big for Brendon to ride comfortably. Jon brushes down the horses and wraps up all the stolen clothes to make it look like Brendon is traveling with some belongings, and then makes a careful circuit of the area to make sure there are no obvious traces of their presence. Getting Spencer onto the back of Jon's roan mare is something of a challenge, but he grits his teeth and doesn't mutter so much as a word of complaint.

"Don't fall off," Jon says, patting Spencer's leg.

Spencer looks pale enough to pass out right then and there, but he only nods and says, "I'll do my best."

"Wait," says Brendon, just before Ryan grimaces and pronounces them ready to leave. "Just a minute. I thought, I, I took something else." He leaps down from his horse, rummages in one of the bundles of clothes they've strapped to the saddles, and brings out a thin wooden box that Jon doesn't remember seeing before. "From the last place we went," says Brendon to Jon, apologetically. "I saw a girl and followed her, it's, um." He hesitates for a long, tense moment. Then he shoves the box at Ryan. "You'll see. I'm _sorry_."

Ryan takes the box slowly, his long fingers closing light and delicate around the cheap wood: Spencer's hands clench white knuckled around his horse's reins, and Jon puts a hand on his leg, gentle, trying to stop him from jumping down and knocking whatever it is out of Ryan's hands. " _No_ ," Spencer snarls.

Ryan ignores him, and flicks the catch neatly without looking away from Brendon's face. Brendon's chewing the inside of his lip, and, "I'm sorry," he repeats. In Ryan's hands the open make-up box reveals kohl, rouge, cheap colored grease paints, a couple of brushes. There's a tiny cracked hand mirror resting in the lid. Jon's breath catches, and his chest aches with sympathy.

Ryan looks down at the stuff blankly, and then back at Brendon, who's just watching him with a helpless look in his eyes. Under Jon's hand Spencer's leg is quivering with coiled tension. "I said no," he says. "I mean it, Ryan, you don't have to, you're not going to."

"You don't have to," says Jon, feeling sick.

"You - I'm sorry. You _don't_ have to," says Brendon.

"No," says Ryan, brushing his fingers over the surface of the broken mirror. "No - I - it's a good idea." He nods. "It's a good idea, Brendon. Thanks."

Jon can't remember hearing Ryan use Brendon's name before.

Brendon's face works as Ryan walks past him, over to the horses. Spencer looks down from his perch on his horse's back and says Ryan's name. "I'm fine," says Ryan. "Seriously, Spence, it's all right."

"You still don't -"

"I know I don't have to. It's a disguise, right? An act." He leans against the horse, which blows air through its nose with a disgruntled whine and holds still, and touches Spencer's leg, above Jon's hand. Jon hastily lets go and steps back. "Just give me a moment," says Ryan. He's already picked up a brush and dipped it in one of the little bottles.

It doesn't take long for him to turn his face into - something else, something almost doll-like with its wash of color and huge dark eyes. Brendon makes an unhappy noise, but Ryan just gives himself a considering look in the cracked mirror and uses quick, fine strokes of black paint all along his cheekbone and temple to draw -

"Birds?" says Jon.

Ryan looks up and gives him the tiniest ghost of a smile. "Birds are free."

Jon stares at him and feels his breath catch a little. _God._ After a few seconds Ryan's smile drops off his face, and he looks away.

"Okay," Brendon says after a moment. "Let's go."

Brendon and Spencer ride ahead, Jon and Ryan walk behind. They reach the road without any trouble, and once they're headed south, toward the border, nobody pays them any mind. They are too ordinary a scene to attract attention: two well-off men traveling on horseback, two tired slaves trudging after.

Their progress is slow because Brendon insists on stopping every time he thinks Spencer needs to rest. Jon never once hears Spencer complain, but he never protests when they pause either. All through the day Ryan walks with his head high - _still fighting_ \- and he doesn't speak except to Spencer: "Drink more water, Spence," and, "You should eat something," and, "There's a cloak in the bags, you should wear it." Jon see Brendon glancing back several times and hopes nobody notices and wonders at his concern for his slaves.

And Jon catches himself several times on the verge of saying something, anything, hollow reassurances or repeated plans, any words at all to crack Ryan's shell again. But he stops himself each time, keeps his eyes forward and concentrates on putting one step in front of the other. He doesn't want Brendon to have to scold them for idle conversation as a master would, and Ryan wouldn't thank him for it anyway.

Jon is beginning to think this might be the most remarkably dull escape ever when, about mid-afternoon, they pass through a crossroads and a man rides up beside them. He's young and wealthy and he tells them he's "Traveling alone but heading your way, don't mind if I ride along for a bit, do you?" There's no polite way for Brendon to refuse, so the man joins them and begins talking cheerfully as they ride along. "Valdez," he introduces himself. "Shane Valdez. I'm off to visit my great-uncle - he and all the rest of my family are bound and determined to make a military man out of me. Useless third son, you know how it is." He turns a friendly smile on Spencer and asks, "Why did you join up?"

Jon sees the panic flicker across Spencer's face. "Oh, I -" Spencer glances at Brendon, clearly at a loss and fuck, _fuck_ , he's been a slave his _entire life_ ; Jon should have realized how hard this would be for him. But it passes so quickly and Spencer recovers, says, "It was - like that. There was no need for me in the family business."

Brendon takes over the conversation smoothly, filling the afternoon with empty chatter, and it isn't long before Jon is seriously impressed. Brendon wasn’t lying when he said he could act like a nobleman; he's so good at it Valdez doesn't seem to notice Spencer's discomfort, or the way he answers each question like he expects to be punished for lying.

The shadows are lengthening when Valdez says, "Hey, look, it's getting late and my cousin lives just over there - they've stayed safe in the middle of all this plague, thank god - and you've been good company for my ride, so let me offer you somewhere to stay for the night."

Brendon blinks in surprise and looks back at Jon. Jon shakes his head slightly. "You're very kind," Brendon says, "but we have a ways to travel tonight."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," Valdez says, laughing. "The next village with a proper inn isn't for miles, and it's barely a proper inn at all. We always have a place at the table for gentlemen and soldiers of the realm. And," he adds with a wink, "warm beds. You haven't got a better offer, have you?" He says it like a joke, but there's real curiosity in his voice now, and Jon knows he's thinking of asking questions.

"You're very kind," Brendon says again. Jon can see him struggling not to glance back again, to look as though he's considering the offer carefully rather than trying to think of another excuse. "I don’t want to impose on you. Surely your family won’t appreciate…" He glances back at Ryan pointedly, and Jon gets what he’s saying at once. You don’t take a bedslave into a respectable house.

He could wish Brendon had thought of something else, _anything_ else to say, but Ryan doesn’t react, and the excuse doesn’t work anyway. "They’re not _that_ provincial," says Valdez. “Come on, you’re both dead on your feet. Think of your horses, at least!”

“I do think..." Brendon glances at Spencer, who meets his eyes expressionlessly. "I do think my friend needs a comfortable place to rest for the night." He doesn't look at Jon and Ryan when he says it. He smiles widely. "And a hot meal."

"Excellent!" says Valdez, grinning. "It's not far now."

The three men on horseback ride ahead. Under his breath, so softly they won't be able to hear, Jon mutters, "That is just fucking perfect."

Ryan snorts quietly, but when Jon looks at him he's still staring straight ahead, his face carefully blank.  
_

 **  
_vi._   
**

The Rt. Hon. Shane Valdez is a perfectly decent man, and if they'd met under any other circumstances - if _he'd_ been one of the young men who flocked around Lady Victoria nursing hopeless infatuations - Brendon thinks he might have liked him. He's friendly and charming and cracks good jokes, and he's more than willing to be drawn into casual conversation with Brendon when he sees that Spencer doesn't want to talk about the army. Brendon thinks of the young men who used to invite themselves up to Victoria's estate during hunting season - especially Nate, who even Ryland and Alex liked and had been faintly disbelieving that Lady Victoria favored Brendon so much ( _He's a bit spoilt, isn't he?_ ) until he heard Brendon play. He'd complimented Brendon effusively afterwards and asked if he played the drums at all.

Brendon _liked_ Nate, and now he tries to imitate him - the confident set of his shoulders, the slight drawl of his voice - and it seems to be working. Shane talks and jokes with him easily, not a hint of suspicion in his face or his voice, and Brendon finds it easy to get him talking about his own family and life, about how he sort of wants to be an artist but his parents insist soldiering is more respectable. Brendon skates around the questions about his own past, sketching a casual picture that would do for hundreds of minor nobles: a small estate ("up in the north," he says, "not far from the old Asher place," and he's proud of that casual "Asher place," knows it's exactly right), an uninteresting fiancée (and Shane grins at him, "I guess anything's uninteresting when you've got _that_ ," jerking his head at Ryan), a dull, comfortable, easy life. When Shane asks what Brendon's doing on the road around here if he's a northerner, Brendon winks and says, "Buying slaves," and Shane throws his head back and laughs. "Don't want your girl to know, hey?"

"God, no," says Brendon, and that's the end of that line of conversation. He wonders if Ryan's listening. He hopes he's not.

Shane's invitation, when it comes, is more of a surprise than it should be, and he looks a little offended as Brendon stretches the pause after his first excuse fails, trying to think of a way to turn it down. Finally he apologizes silently to Jon and accepts as gracefully as he can. Spencer's looking pale, staying on his horse mostly by sheer stubbornness, and the wounds on his back are still only partway healed. He needs to rest. Ryan would agree.

At the turning for the driveway of Shane's cousin's house, Shane whoops and spurs his horse into a gallop, kicking up a cloud of dust that makes Jon and Ryan choke and cough behind them. Brendon looks at Spencer, and then risks a glance back at the other two. Jon's wiping dust off his face, and Ryan, who can't do that without smudging his paint, is blinking hard. "We have to keep going now," Spencer says, and behind them, Jon nods tightly, clearly not happy. Brendon turns his horse to follow Shane's tracks.

The house is a small country place in old-fashioned stone and timber, and there's a crowd of people milling around outside. Shane is being hugged by an elderly woman and a middle-aged couple is hovering nearby. An old man in a heavy wool coat is standing in the porch, beaming as he chews on the barrel of his pipe. A slave is leading Shane's horse away and another has just taken his coat - but of course: nobleman's house, nobleman's staff. This was a mistake, Brendon realizes, but it's too late to turn back.

Shane is waving to them. "- company!" he finishes saying, just as Brendon and Spencer ride up. "Sir Brendon, Captain, this is my great-aunt Agatha, my cousin Sir Nicholas, his wife Cassandra, and last but not least, Great-Uncle Marcus, formerly Colonel Marcus Valdez of the Royal Fifteenth."

Brendon keeps his face still only by an immense effort of will as he and Spencer dismount; he wants to cringe in horror. "It's a pleasure to meet you gentlemen," Shane's cousin is saying, even as his great-uncle booms, "Captain, did you say? What unit, boy?"

Spencer doesn't blink. "Kirk's Twelfth," he replies with a passable salute, wincing a little as the movement of his arm shifts the muscles in his back. Brendon steps closer to him, ready to catch him if his knees give way. "Under Colonel Marling, sir."

Brendon's stunned, but the old soldier hasn't noticed anything wrong. "Good fellow, Marling," he says. "Well, and it does my soul good to see an honest soldier again. You'll have to tell me how the army's getting on without me, captain."

Spencer glances desperately at Brendon. "I'd be honored, sir," he says.

"I'm afraid my friend has been wounded," Brendon leaps in, "and we've been traveling all day. He needs food and rest and quiet, above all."

"Wounded! Forgive Marcus, he's a selfish old man," says Shane's aunt Agatha. "Of course you must rest. We'll send some slaves round for your horses -"

"Oh, Jon will see to that," says Brendon. "Dragged him along for a reason, after all. Jon!" He snaps his fingers. "The horses." He doesn't bother to look and see if Jon does what he's told: masters don't check on their slaves. Masters just expect obedience. "And I've got another along as well," he adds, as casually as he can. "Mind if I keep him with me? He's a new purchase, he's still a little skittish."

"I - yes, of course, not at all," says Sir Nicholas, after a moment's pause. His wife's eyebrows have flown up, and Brendon's not surprised; you don't take pleasure slaves to respectable houses, and you don't keep them where other people can see them. That's the whole point of having a slave rather than a mistress, after all: guaranteed convenience, guaranteed discretion. "We'll send him up to your room?"

"Oh. Um, yes," says Brendon. Of course. His room. "That's fine. Though he'll need a bath, if it's not too much trouble. He's not fit for looking at right now."

As they walk into the house, Ryan following a respectful three paces behind, he manages to whisper to Spencer, "How did you know which unit?"

"It was engraved on the barrel of the pistol," Spencer whispers back. "Fuck. I, I don't know anything about the army, Brendon."

Brendon nods grimly. He doesn't either. They're in so much trouble.

[Chapter Four](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/1544.html)


	5. But Not the Song (4/17)

_  
**But Not the Song (4/17)**   
_   
[Story Index and Warnings](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/446.html)

[Chapter Three](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/1482.html)

  
**  
_vii._   
**

Dinner is an absolute nightmare.

"Tell me, lad," the colonel says, his voice booming with delight, "has old Marling been up to his usual tricks? I always said he would land himself in trouble, but the fool was too stubborn to listen." The old man waits patiently, his wine glass lifted.

And Spencer - _fuck_ , Spencer looks like he's both surprised the old man is talking to him and too terrified to answer. After a moment he swallows and manages, "Uh, yes, sir. Yes, still the same old... tricks."

It wouldn't be so bad, Brendon thinks, if it were just him. He can play along; he can fake it well enough. But Spencer has no fucking clue what he's doing.

He feels immediately guilty for thinking it. He has Lady Victoria’s example to follow, after all, and there's nothing in this house besides the fear of being found out to intimidate him. Spencer's doesn't have even that. They should have made Ryan play the part, Brendon realizes. Nobody would believe Ryan is a soldier, but he at least remembers being something other than a slave, being proud and haughty and in control. Spencer mostly looks like he wants to vanish into the woodwork.

"It's so terrible to see young men injured in war," says Cassandra kindly.

"Part of the duty," Marcus says, and beside him Shane rolls his eyes. "So how'd you land up, Captain?"

Spencer doesn't answer right away, and Brendon nudges him under the table. "Oh," Spencer says, looking down at his plate. "It was a... a skirmish, sir."

The colonel raises his eyebrows in question.

"Plague riots," Brendon adds quickly. He ignores the grateful look Spencer gives him. "They keep getting worse, you know. With so few slaves to work the fields, people are grabbing whoever they can."

"Didn't know Kirk's Twelfth was on riot duty," the colonel says. "Hmph. Things do change."

"It's out of control," cousin Nicholas puts in from down the table. "It's all the army can do to keep order, and troublemakers like that Wentz fellow and his ilk aren't making things any easier."

Brendon knocks his wineglass, catches it just in time to keep it from falling. Beside him, Spencer is perfectly still, barely breathing. "Who?" Brendon asks. His voice doesn't even shake - much. "What sort of trouble?"

"Mucking about with the proper order of things," Agatha says primly. "That's what happens when young people have too much idle time on their hands."

Shane leans forward, obviously more willing to explain. "They say," he says eagerly, "there's a secret organization of gentlemen who go about buying up slaves from honest traders, and then sneaking back later to steal the money they paid in the first place."

Jon had neglected to mention the "steal the money" part of the scheme, but Brendon feels a little bit stupid for not guessing it on his own. It would be a short-lived conspiracy if they went around paying out money all the time with no way to get it back.

He takes a sip of wine. "A secret organization? That's hard to believe."

"They're only rumors," says Nicholas. "Stop talking nonsense, Shane."

"They're only rumors because the traders are too ashamed to admit it," Shane retorts. "No merchant wants to let on he's been taken in by an idiot dandy over a few ordinary slaves."

"Rumors," Nicholas says again, laughing. "Have you ever heard of such a thing, Sir Brendon? You've traveled a lot recently. Any sign of dangerous societies about the land? Is your pretty painted bird a secret agent harboring treasonous thoughts?"

"Or any thoughts at all?" his wife adds. "Though I do say, to put a mind in that one would be _such_ a waste."

And they all laugh, good-natured and bright. All of them except Spencer, who's traded his hunted-animal look for one that suggests he's contemplating murdering every person in the room with his bare hands.

Brendon nudges Spencer's ankle in what he hopes is a warning, and he forces himself to let go of the fork gripped in his hand. Smiling as disarmingly as he can manage, he says, "Not that one. I didn't pay for his mind."

More laughter, and Agatha waves one hand dismissively. "Secret societies, renegade gentlemen. It all sounds like an child's story to me."

"Hmm," the colonel grunts. "Where there's smoke, there's fire. Don't dismiss these things so quickly. Tell me, Captain." Spencer's eyes go wide as the old man fixes on him again. "What news do you have from the northern provinces? Is Burger still mucking things up with his muddle-headed waffling?"

All in all, Brendon considers it a victory to make it through dinner. Drinks and cigars in the drawing room afterward are just as bad, but by then Spencer is looking shaky enough that even the colonel admits he probably needs rest. It's easier for Brendon to handle the conversation on his own, but he can't help but think from the way the other men are watching him that he's messed up entirely, that they see right through him and know there should be chains around his ankles.

When they finally, _finally_ call it a night, several games of cards and more than a few bottles of whiskey later, Brendon climbs the stairs to his guest room. The staircase seems to go on for a lot longer than he remembers, but he's also a lot drunker than he was earlier. All he wants to do is fall asleep so they can get the fuck out of this place in the morning. Jon is probably sound asleep in the stable, Spencer in the other guest room, and Ryan - well, Ryan's waiting in Brendon's room because that's where he was sent, and Brendon really doesn't want to think about that at all. He just wants to sleep.

He opens the bedroom door and carelessly kicks it shut behind him. Fumbling with the buttons of his jacket, he says, "God, I thought they would never -"

He stops. Ryan _is_ waiting. He's kneeling on the floor beside a chair in front of the fireplace. There's no fire on the hearth and the only light in the room comes from two flickering candles, but it's more than enough light to see that Ryan is _kneeling_ on the _floor_ \- and he's completely naked.

"What the fuck are you -"

Ryan looks up sharply, and something in his expression makes Brendon stop. But he doesn't move forward.

"Allow me to help you with your boots, master," Ryan says. There is no inflection in his voice at all; his words are as hollow as an echo.

"Ryan, what the hell are you -"

"Master," Ryan says. He speaks a bit louder but drops his gaze to the floor again. "You must be very tired. Allow me to help you."

Brendon walks toward him slowly and sits in the chair. "You don't have to..."

Ryan puts one hand on Brendon's leg and squeezes _hard_ , enough to leave a bruise. "Stop it," he says, barely a breath of sound. Brendon leans closer almost without meaning to, bending down so that Ryan's lips brush his ear. Ryan squeezes his leg again and whispers, "They think you're lying."

 _I am lying_ , Brendon thinks, but he's not quite drunk enough to say the words out loud.

Ryan drops his eyes, ducks his head, and starts working on the laces of Brendon's boots (Jon's boots, the only ones any of them had that looked good enough for a nobleman, with rags stuffed in the toes, and Brendon fervently wishes Jon were here, or even Spencer, or someone else who could tell him _what the fuck is going on_ ). Brendon gulps and stares at the top of Ryan's head; Ryan has dark brown hair with a slight kink to it, and it looks soft. Brendon sort of wants to touch it, has sort of wanted to touch it for days, now, if he's honest – but instead he grips the arms of the chair so tightly the wooden carvings dig into his skin, and tries to force himself to _think_ through the whiskey-fog.

It doesn't work. Ryan finishes unlacing one boot and draws it off slowly, his fingers brushing Brendon's calf in a practiced tease. Brendon makes a small sound without meaning to and says, " _Ryan_."

"Yes, master?" says Ryan, looking up, still holding the boot. His gaze is dark and steady and gives nothing away. The flickering candlelight makes his bare skin look smooth and perfect and golden, and paints odd shadows on his face so that the painted birds look almost like they're moving. Brendon opens his mouth to say - something, he doesn't know what, and why the _hell_ did he drink so much damn whiskey? - but Ryan doesn't let him start, putting the boot neatly to one side and running both hands back up Brendon's leg, almost to mid-thigh, pressing his face briefly against the side of Brendon's knee. Brendon can't _move_ , and the carvings on the chair's arms are going to leave marks on his hands, he's gripping so tightly.

"You don't, it's only -" he manages to choke, and can't find the breath to finish _me_ , as Ryan repeats the whole routine on the other boot. He sets it aside again, lining it up neatly with its partner, and runs his hands up Brendon's leg: but this time he doesn't take them away, resting one on the back of Brendon's calf and the other just above his knee, and presses his face to the inside of Brendon's thigh. Brendon's trousers are thin fabric, cheaper than they look, and he can feel the shape of Ryan's mouth through them, his breath hot and damp, burning.

He doesn't mean to gasp.

Ryan pulls back, make-up smudged, his lips curving in - triumph? scorn? - and his hands go to the fastenings of Brendon's trousers, and that's it, Brendon's got to _stop_ this, this is crazy. He forces his hands to unclench from the chair's arms so he can - touch Ryan, grab him by the shoulders, push him back, maybe shake him until all the crazy falls out and he starts _making sense_ for once. But Ryan's not paying attention, doesn't notice Brendon flailing helplessly above him: he undoes the last button and slips his hand inside, closing his long fingers around Brendon's cock, and Brendon's drunk and he's getting hard and he can't think straight, can only stare and bite down hard on his lip as Ryan licks his lips and then licks delicately at the head. Brendon doesn't - Brendon won't - Brendon's had sex before, the days when Lady Victoria had announced she was bored and smirked at him. Afterwards she'd ruffled his hair and called him a darling, and sometimes she'd come back from her trips to the city with a parcel of sheet music for him tucked among her purchases, and it had been easy and it had been fun and Brendon had been _happy_ being Victoria’s slave, he had.

She'd never done this, never anything like this.

Ryan leans forward and takes Brendon's cock right into his mouth as smoothly as if he does it every day, his hands braced on Brendon's spread thighs. Brendon's whole body jerks and his head falls back, hits the back of the chair with an audible _thunk_ , and if whoever's sleeping next door didn't hear that, they'll almost certainly hear the groan that rips out of him next. His hands hover in the air, shaking and useless, while conflicting impulses war in his head: part of him is shouting that he needs to push Ryan off, the rest demanding that he twist his fingers in that soft dark hair and _pull_.

Ryan hums around his cock and sucks harder, does something with his tongue that makes Brendon stifle a yell, and god, he wants this never to stop. He wants it to be over already. He wants it to be next week when they'll be at the rendezvous and safe and Ryan never has to wear facepaint of any sort ever again. He wants Ryan to _look_ at him, and most of all he wants to find whoever it was that taught him this, made him like this, and kill them. Ryan sucks harder and Brendon finds the breath somewhere to say, "I'm, I'm going to -" and makes his hands obey him for long enough to grab Ryan's shoulders and physically shove him back, but he's left it too late - he comes with a yell and when he's stopped seeing stars, Ryan's kneeling back on his haunches, looking up at him blankly, and using the back of his hand to wipe Brendon's come off his face.

"Oh god," says Brendon, and practically falls out of the chair trying to get to Ryan -"I'm, crap, I'm so sorry."

Ryan doesn't look at him. Ryan doesn't look at him because he's busy _licking his fucking fingers._

" _Ryan_ ," says Brendon despairingly, and reaches out for him, puts a hand on Ryan's face and tries to turn it for a kiss, comfort, something. Ryan flinches involuntarily, so tightly controlled that Brendon would never have noticed it if he wasn't touching him, and Brendon snatches his hand away again. Of course Ryan doesn't want to kiss him, why the fuck would he? None of this was ever anything he wanted. He's not even, shit, he's not even hard. "Sorry," Brendon whispers.

Ryan tilts his head, but Brendon's not fooled; he's looking past Brendon, not at him. "Did I not please you, master?"

" _Fuck,_ " says Brendon, with feeling, and clambers to his feet, hands scrabbling to fasten his trousers again. He can't, he can't act when he's like this. "You -"

Ryan's still kneeling, still _naked_ , watching him patiently. His make-up's ruined beyond repair, the birds transformed into a smudged black cloud that looks like a bruise. Brendon sort of wants to cry. He takes a breath.

"Good enough," he says as lightly as he can. "Get on the bed and go to sleep, I'm done with you for tonight. I'll be back soon."

He stumbles to the door and slams it closed tight behind him, slumps against it and tries to breathe.

"Everything all right?"

Brendon jumps. It's Shane, who's looking at him with friendly concern. "Didn't mean to surprise you," said he says. "Didn't think I'd see you again before morning, I have to say. My room's -" He jerks his head. "Next door."

Shane probably heard Brendon... heard him. He feels his face get hot, and ducks his head, tries to think what the lord he's pretending to be would say. "Everything's fine. Ryan's just a little" - smirk -"insatiable, poor thing. Thought I'd give him a moment."

Shane grins at him. "Insatiable, huh? So I heard. Is he really that good?"

"Better," says Brendon, his voice getting thankfully less shaky as he gets into the swing of it. The person he's being right now wouldn't be upset about getting a blowjob from a bedslave. The person he's being right now enjoyed every minute and didn't try to kiss anyone afterwards.

Shane is laughing. "I have to say, I've never been all that interested in pretty boys," he says. "I don't know, maybe I should look into it."

Brendon folds his arms and leans back against the door with a grin. "More for me if you don't."

Shane laughs again, and then his face grows curious. "Is it - can I ask - very different, having a - courtesan? I mean, I see how you are, you treat him -" He shrugs. "Well, you're soft with him."

"He... he doesn't need anything more," says Brendon. "He doesn't need any - cruelty." ( _More_ cruelty, he nearly says, but that's too close to the bone, that's giving too much away.)

"I suppose they're not like most of 'em, really. More like having a pet, right?"

"No," says Brendon sharply, without thinking, and then winces. Too close to true. He's too shaken, he can't do this. Shane's curious look has gotten more pronounced.

"No?"

"I - no. They're not, um, pets." Brendon shrugs, trying to make it casual. "Not really pets at all. They're people, all of them, they're - well. I mean. I suppose."

Shane watches him for a long moment. His expression is thoughtful. "You think so?" he says. "Huh. I never - well, it's not something you normally think about much, I guess." He smiles. "I'd better get back to bed. And let you get back to -"

"Ryan," agrees Brendon. "I think I might tell him enough is enough, though. I want to get some sleep tonight."

"That'd be good," says Shane. "So do I." He winks. "Sleep well."

Brendon stays in the hallway for a while longer, leaning against the door with his eyes closed. If only he could... But there's nothing he can do, not now. So he opens the door and steps inside, closes it quietly behind him. The candles are out, and in the faint light from the window he see Ryan lying on one side of the bed. He's on his back, perfectly motionless.

"Ryan," Brendon says, so quietly.

Ryan doesn't move. His eyes are closed, his hands lying by his sides. Brendon doesn't think he's asleep, but he's not going to make Ryan answer, not if he wants to pretend. Brendon can give him that, at least.

He stands beside the bed for a long time. He can sleep on the floor; he's used to it. But if one of the house slaves comes in in the morning, or somebody else for whatever reason, they'll know something is wrong and everything - it will all be for nothing.

Brendon takes a deep breath and sits on the edge of the bed, then lies back, careful not to touch Ryan. He exhales slowly and closes his eyes, trying not to listen to Ryan breathing beside him. It's a long time before he falls asleep.

But he does fall asleep at some point, because when he wakes there is sunshine through the window and Ryan is standing beside the bed.

"What," Brendon begins, but he cuts off with huge yawn, one that he instantly regrets. His mouth is dry and his head is pounding, and it's a few moments before he can remember how to work his limbs well enough to sit up. "Is it time to go?"

Ryan is fully dressed, nothing out of place, and he's painted his face again. There are no birds today, only dark shadows around his eyes. All at once Brendon remembers - Ryan waiting, Ryan on his knees, _Ryan_ , all of it whiskey-blurred and dreamlike - and he feels suddenly, painfully nauseous. He claps a hand over his mouth until the feeling subsides, and then forces himself to look up at Ryan.

Ryan meets his eyes for only a moment, so quick Brendon thinks he might be imagining it, and he says, "The horses will be ready when you are." There's a beat, barely noticeable. "Master."

Then he's gone, footsteps across floorboards, the door swinging shut, and Brendon begins to dress himself. His head hurts with every fucking movement so he starts slowly, but through the haze of sickness and exhaustion he hears the sound of rapid hoof beats outside the house.

He pushes back the curtain to looks out the window: soldiers, about a dozen of them, waiting in a prancing, impatient half-circle outside the house.

Panic slams into Brendon so hard he can barely breathe. He stumbles away from the window and races out of the room, some part of him aware that his shirt is still unbuttoned and he's trailing his jacket behind him. He nearly falls down the stairs in his haste but he doesn't stop until he's outside.

There, he halts abruptly and can't stop himself from asking, "What the hell is going on?"

The entire household is outside, watching with worried expressions, but it's the old colonel who catches Brendon's attention. The old man is standing regiment-straight as the soldiers dismount and salute him, and Spencer is on his knees on the ground beside him.

 _No, no, no, no, no_ \- Brendon is rushing forward before he's even aware of it. "What are you - what is -" He can't even finish the question. They know, of course they know, there was no fucking way it would work. He told them he could pretend but he didn't fool anybody and now they -

"I'm afraid you've been taken in, Sir Brendon," the colonel says solemnly. "This... this _person_ is not who he claims."

Brendon's mouth drops open. "What?"

"Don't know how he thought he could fool anyone for long," Nicholas says somewhere behind Brendon. "Even I knew there was something wrong with his story, and I'm not a military man."

The colonel _hmphs_ disbelievingly, and he looks down at Spencer with something almost like pity on his face. "Never try to trick an old soldier, boy. We've seen it all before. Should have seen it sooner," he adds, flicking a glance at Brendon.

One of the women - Cassandra - touches Brendon's arm lightly. "Don't feel bad for being tricked, Sir Brendon. He took advantage of your kindness."

"My..." _Sir Brendon_. They're still calling him Sir Brendon. Brendon swallows and wishes his head would stop pounding so he could fucking _think_. "He - who is he, then?"

"Runaway slave, nothing more," the colonel says dismissively. "Nick here thought he might be a spy, so he sent for men from the fort -" He waves at the soldiers around, looking vaguely amused. "But I confronted him and the boy confessed. They always do. They're not bright enough to keep up a lie."

"I see," says Brendon slowly. And he does. Damn it all to hell, he really does. His mind is racing. "I'm... I have to admit, I'm shocked. I never thought... He said he knew - knew my brother, that's why I thought he was a friend. I thought - I never even suspected."

"Of course you didn't," someone is saying, but he doesn't pay attention to who it is. "They'll try anything, you know, some of them are practically rabid."

He's looking at Spencer's bent head, silently begging him to look up, and he doesn't make a sound but Spencer seems to hear him anyway. He lifts his head and stares directly at Brendon, and he looks scared, but he also looks - stubborn, determined, so many things Brendon can't read, he doesn't know Spencer well enough, doesn't know what the hell is going on behind his careful, submissive mask.

Spencer's gaze slants to side quickly. The commotion has brought the slaves out of the stable to watch, and he sees Jon emerge from the dark doorway, followed by Ryan. Brendon can see the moment Jon understands what's happening, and he can see how it's a moment too late to stop the furious, ringing, " _No!_ " that rips from Ryan's throat. Jon grabs for him, but Ryan is lunging forward and shoving the other slaves aside.

And Brendon - he sees Spencer's eyes widen in alarm, and he sees the fear there, the desperate plea. He doesn't think, he doesn't _let_ himself think. Two steps to the side and he's intercepting Ryan, and he means only to shove him back, to stop him. But his hand catches Ryan's jaw hard enough to sting, and when he barks out, "Stop that!" it's like Ryan is a marionette and Brendon has cut the strings. Ryan stops immediately, and when Brendon adds, " _Behave yourself_ ," he sinks to the ground. Jon is beside him in an instant, one hand curving tightly around Ryan's upper arm, and Brendon hopes it's enough - god, it has to be enough to stop him if he thinks of fighting.

"It seems your fuck-toy is a bit sympathetic," Nicholas says dryly, and several people chuckle.

Brendon takes a couple of breaths. "I will see to him," he says. His voice is shaking so hard there's no way he can hide it, but he hopes they think it's from anger and nothing more.

"Yes, but perhaps you should -"

Brendon swing around and glares at the man. "I will _see to it_ ," he snarls.

Nicholas looks slightly stunned, but he only says, "Yes, yes, of course. Your property and all. I don't mean to intrude."

Everybody is looking at Brendon now - half-dressed and trembling with anger, so fucking scared he doesn't trust himself to speak, not right away - and nobody is looking at Spencer anymore. So there is nobody but Brendon watching when Spencer meets his eyes again and moves his mouth in the shape of words without sound.

It looks like _thank you._

Brendon closes his eyes for a moment. When he looks again, Spencer's head is bent again toward the ground, his hair falling around his face.

Without even turning, Brendon says to Jon, "Ready the horses. We're wasting daylight."

He pretends not to hear Jon murmuring quietly to Ryan as he leads him away. He pretends not to hear when one of the soldiers barks, "Out of that uniform, swine, stolen clothes are too good for you," and everyone gathers with prurient interest as Spencer undresses.

Brendon turns to the colonel and his family and offers profuse apologies, heartfelt thanks, saying every fucking word they expect him to say and watching their faces to make sure they believe it. They do believe it. One masquerading guest is enough for them; whatever Spencer told them when the old man confronted him, it didn't make them suspicious of Brendon and the others. _Not bright enough to keep up a lie_ , Brendon thinks, swallowing back hysterical laughter.

The soldiers bind Spencer's hands and tie the rope to a saddle, and they ride away with him stumbling behind them. He never looks back, and Brendon doesn't know if he's glad or not. He wants to say _we'll find you again_ , he wants to say _just stay alive, that's all, stay alive until we come for you_ , he wants to say _I promise_. But Spencer never looks back, and the only words Brendon can manage when Jon leads the horses out of the stable are, "You two might as well ride, but don't get used to it. We have a lot of ground to cover."

More thanks, more apologies, and the family wishes Sir Brendon luck in his travels. He hates every single one of them as much as he's ever hated anybody, but he smiles and mounts his horse and rides away, Jon and Ryan following behind, as though it's just another day on the road.

They don't say anything, but Brendon isn't even a little surprised when, only a mile from the house on an empty stretch of road, Ryan starts fighting against Jon's arms around his middle.

"Let me go, let me go, let me _go_ ," he says, over and over again, swinging his arms and kicking so wildly the horse dances nervously. "Let me go, I'm going back -"

"Ryan, Ryan, you can't -"

Ryan ignores Jon's quiet voice. "Let me _go_ , I'm not going to fucking leave him." He finally breaks free and slips to the ground, and Jon immediately hops down beside him. Ryan steps back, his eyes wide and every muscle in his body tense and defiant. "I'm going back for him," he says. "I won't leave him again."

Jon bites his lip and shakes his head slowly. "What are you going to do, Ryan?" he asks. "What the hell is there that you think you can do?"

The words are harsh but the tone's not, and Jon steps closer, carefully, like he's gentling a skittish horse. The look in his eyes is so serious, thinks Brendon, so sad. Ryan stares at him wide-eyed under his dark makeup, his whole body quivering, and he goes stiff as Jon first puts his hand on Ryan's shoulder, and then wraps his arms around him in a full-body hug. For a long moment there's no movement but Brendon's horse kicking fitfully at the dust, no sound but the wind making the long grass whisper. Then Ryan gasps and goes limp, hands coming up to clutch fistfuls of Jon's shirt, and Jon stumbles and grunts and catches him, steadies him, rests one hand comfortingly on the back of his neck when he buries his face in Jon's shoulder. "Why do you think he did it, Ryan?" he says quietly.

Everything is so silent. Ryan's shaking but Brendon doesn't think he's crying, and Jon's murmured "shh, shh" echoes loud in his ears. He wants to do something, help somehow, but he can't help with this, not when this - this is _his fault_ , he accepted that fucking invitation. He's frozen, his hands clenched into fists and useless, his tongue like lead in his mouth, and a treacherous bit of his mind says _just like last night_ and presents him with more flashes of images for comparison, candlelit skin and Jon's boots lined up by the chair, sense-memories of carvings digging into his fingers and Ryan's mouth hot on his thigh. He squeezes his eyes shut and wills it all away.

When he looks again Ryan's pulled himself together a little, although he keeps his back to Brendon and won't meet Jon's eyes properly. "All right," he says. "All right. The rendezvous."

"I am so fucking sorry," says Jon.

Ryan laughs mirthlessly. "Me too."

Brendon finally, miraculously, manages to find words. "What, wait, _what?_ " he says - and suddenly his tongue is tripping over them, there's so many. "No, we can't, I won't, there's got to be some - we'll go back," he says, "We can go back, there weren't that many soldiers. We can think of a plan or sneak around them or _something_. We can't just, I have to -" and _I made a promise_. He doesn't say it, but he did, he _promised_ , even if Spencer didn't hear it.

He stutters and falls silent when he realizes Jon's glaring at him. Ryan's shoulders have gone stiff. "I -" he begins, but he stops when Jon shakes his head emphatically.

Ryan walks back to the roan mare, puts his foot into the stirrup and swings himself up. Then he turns to look at Brendon. "Shut the fuck up," he says calmly.

Brendon's been a slave all his life. He knows an order when he hears one.

They reach the checkpoint at the foot of the pass just before noon. Brendon's been so sunk in misery he'd forgotten about it, and only remembers that _this_ was supposed to be the difficult part of the journey when he sees a couple of soldiers poke their heads out the quickly-built guardhouse ahead on the road, gesturing to each other when they spot the riders coming. By the time they draw level with the guardhouse, there are half a dozen soldiers standing in the road. They don't look hostile, but that doesn't change the fact that all of them are armed.

Brendon takes a breath and tries to focus on who he's supposed to be. "Good morning!" he shouts. "Who's in charge here?"

To his surprise, the soldiers all salute, and it takes him a moment to realize of course, they think he's a lord. "Routine check, sir!" says the nearest smartly. "Must ask you to speak with our lieutenant, sir! All slaves leaving this valley to be examined thoroughly, sir!"

Brendon draws a breath. The last thing he wants is Ryan and Jon being _examined_ by an armed squadron. "I beg your pardon?" he says haughtily. "I think _not_. And take your hands off my property!" he snaps, as another soldier tries to take the reins of the other horse away from Jon.

"These are your slaves, sir?" says the soldier. "Gotta be examined. Regulations. There's plague in these parts, don't know if you heard, and we don't want it getting across the mountains."

"I know perfectly well that there's plague around," says Brendon, nose in the air. This man is frighteningly competent, but he hasn't got the authority to tell a lord what to do. Brendon just has to make himself _remember_ that. "Why do you think I'm leaving? I don't plan to lose my brand new courtesan to that filth. You can be sure he's been nowhere near the dead. And the other is my personal groom. I brought him with me from home. _He's_ not been near the pox-ridden farmyards around here either."

Sure enough, the soldier falters a little. "I, I'm sure you're right, sir," he says, "but the regulations, you know -"

"Oh, don't think I don't see what you're up to," Brendon sneers. "None of you is putting your oafish hands anywhere near my bedslave, I promise you. If you keep this up I'll report you to your commander."

He's amazed that no one notices how white his knuckles are where he's gripping his reins. He lets himself glance casually over at Ryan and Jon, for reassurance, and sees that Ryan is sitting up poker-straight, letting the men get a good look at him (and looking is exactly what they're doing; some of them are sneering), while Jon slumps casually over the reins and tries to be unnoticeable. That's good. That's what they were supposed to do. There's a chance this batch of soldiers might not know about the arrest warrant out on Jonathan Walker. But it's not a big enough chance to be safe.

"Who's in charge here?" Brendon repeats. "Let's sort this nonsense out."

The soldier looks uncomfortable, but at that moment the guardhouse door opens and an elderly man - a lot older than Brendon would have expected this low in the ranks - comes out. "What's all this?" he says. "What's going on?"

"This, uh, gentleman, won't let us look at his slaves," says the soldier.

"Hmm?" The man looks up at Brendon, still perched on his horse. "Oh, I see. Well, what's your name, sir?" Brendon gives him his false name and directions to his invented estate. "And do you vouch for the good health of these slaves?"

"I do, lieutenant," says Brendon. "On my honor."

"Well, hm, that seems to be in order to me. Let them pass, corporal."

The corporal's mouth works. "But - I - sorry. Yes, sir." To the men, he barks, "Stand aside!"

Brendon looks at their commander. He has to ask. "Is your unit stationed at the local fortress, then, Lieutenant?"

"About half a mile east of here, Sir Brendon," says the man. "Most of us are out on patrol and checkpoint duty half the time, alas. This damned plague -"

"Quite," says Brendon. "Thank god it's spread no further. I take it there's no military mucking about on the other side of the mountains, then?"

"Not as far as I know. No need for it."

"Good to know. I'd hate to have to drag another gang of louts like these away from my property again." He offers a friendly smile, though it feels like his face is stretching in ways it wasn't meant to. "Good luck to you, then."

"And to you," replies the lieutenant.

Brendon kicks his horse into a trot, and the three of them ride on through. He waits until they're definitely out of earshot before he says quietly, "We wait until we're around that bend, and then we go faster."

"Why?" says Jon.

"I saw into the guardhouse over that man's shoulder. They've got a sketch of you pinned up with the posters of fugitives."

Jon's eyes widen, and he nods. They both know that there's still a good chance one of the soldiers will notice what they've missed and sound the alarm.

Ryan says nothing. He's said nothing all day.

That night they camp under a stand of spindly trees halfway up the mountainside. The tired horses chew stolidly at the sparse bushes they can reach, and Jon sighs when he looks at them. "We should have stolen feed for them as well."

"Too late now," says Brendon. Jon nods. "Do you want me to take the first watch?"

Jon glances over to where Ryan is sitting, staring blindly into the fire. "Yes, please," he says. "I'll try and get him to sleep somehow. He can't - well. Not far to go now."

"Not far to go," Brendon echoes, and Jon smiles at him tiredly and reaches out to clasp his shoulder for a moment.

"It'll be all right," he says. "I promise."

"Go look after Ryan," says Brendon.

He keeps his eyes focused on the ground and forces himself not to eavesdrop when Jon crouches beside Ryan and starts talking. Whatever he says, it seems to work; when he next looks up, the two of them are lying together on the ground under the horse blankets. If Brendon peers, he can make out the shape of Jon's arm curled protectively over Ryan's hip.

He doesn't think about it.

He stands up, stretches, rubs the back of his neck where a knot of tension has been aching all day. He picks up a stick of green wood and pokes at the fire until it flares up a little brighter, a little warmer. It's cold this high up, especially after dark.

He doesn't really admit to himself what he's decided to do until he's already doing it.

The horses whuff sleepily and roll their eyes back to look at him as he rummages in the packs. Brendon hesitates a moment, and then hugs them both - Jon's lean roan mare that carried them so far so fast that first night, and the handsome black gelding that came from Wentz's carriage, that Ryan was riding when he found them. If horses could have expressions, he thinks these ones would look bemused by his antics, but they bear the hugs with solemn affection. Brendon loves them a little for that. "Be good," he whispers impulsively, and stifles a giggle when the roan flicks her tail and nips at his fingers.

Jon has paper and ink in a hidden pocket in his saddlebags. "All part of the secret conspirator's arsenal," he'd said with a grin when he'd shown them to Brendon. "For passing sneaky messages, you know. In code." Brendon fishes them out now and writes his note quickly, his hands a little shaky and his writing worse - it's been, fuck, a long time since he was allowed to hold a pen. He folds the paper twice, writes JON on the outside, and tucks it between the metal fastenings of the mare's saddle where he knows Jon will see it in the morning. Then he fishes out Jon's compass and checks his bearings.

Right. All right.

Half a mile east, and down.

_

 **  
_viii._   
**

It's snowing at the top of the pass, and Jon doesn't stop to rest. On a clear day the view stretches for miles, but today the sky is steel-gray and the clouds claustrophobically close all around.

"It all looks the same anyway," he says to himself, reaching forward to pat his horse’s neck.

"What does?"

Surprised, Jon glances over his shoulder. They're the first words Ryan has spoken since that morning. Jon had woken up slowly, still warm next to Ryan beneath the horse blankets, and realized that Brendon hadn't shaken him awake for the second watch in the night. He assumed Brendon had just wandered off for a bit until he found the note tucked in the saddle. _Take care of him. See you on the other side._

Jon stared at the note until Ryan stepped over to him and asked, "What is it?" Jon had answered, "It says -" But Ryan had snatched the note from his hands -"I _can_ read, you know," and Jon hadn't known that before, but he's not surprised - scanned the words quickly, shrugged, and said, "He's going to get himself killed." And nothing more.

Hours later, at the summit of the pass, Jon looks back the way they've come. He can't see anything except clouds, and the snowflakes spinning lazily out of the sky are cold on his face. Spring is slow in coming this year, like it knows there's nothing waiting for it except plague-ridden villages and fields with no one to work them.

"Jon?"

Jon shakes his head and faces forward again. "Come on," he says. "It's a long way down."

Ryan nudges his horse alongside Jon's. "Is it - where we're going..." He trails off and looks away, as though he's ashamed to be asking at all.

It's the first time Ryan has asked anything about where they're going. Unlike Brendon, who had been full of questions once he got over his initial shock. Jon thinks he should be worried that he told him so much. He doesn't know if Brendon will keep the information secret if he's caught. But he can’t quite make himself regret it.

He says, "Where we're going first is just a meeting place, to get you - everyone - papers to prove they're free, give them some time to..." _Adjust_ , Jon thinks. _Learn how not to be a slave. Remember how to live again_. But he only says, "Recover, if they're hurt or sick. It's an old estate. The Beckett family, their eldest son, he lets us use it."

"Why?" asks Ryan abruptly.

"Well, he's friends with -"

"No, I mean, why do you do this? Why do any of you do this?"

Jon thinks of all the times he's answered the question, of dozens of late-night conversations and ongoing arguments, plots and schemes and wild ideals, and how it never feels the same to be talking about _it isn't right_ and _what should be done_ as it does to be where he is right now, fleeing across the border with no idea how to reassure a terrified slave that he is, in fact, a _former_ slave.

He says, "To help people." _To help you_ , but he can't say that. He was supposed to get Brendon to safety, to get himself to safety without getting caught and endangering the entire operation. That's what he was supposed to do. That's what he promised to do when he was riding with Brendon, when Ryan showed up, but then suddenly they were the ones keeping Jon safe, they were the ones with the plan, and then he found Spencer -

Jon shivers. It should be so simple, carrying people and messages over the border. It's what he's good at, or should be. But he's doing a rotten job helping anybody lately.

Ryan is watching Jon carefully when he says, "That's not a reason. What do you get out of it?"

Three people were depending on him, and only one of them is safe.

He says, "A price on my head, apparently. Come on, we've still got a ways to go, and I don't want to be on the road after dark."

It's easier, now. The road's all downhill and completely deserted, and even though Jon's senses are waiting razor-sharp for the first sounds of trouble, there's nothing to disturb them except the occasional rustle of a startled bird in the bushes by the road as their horses pass. Jon tracks them automatically with his eyes as they leap into the air, chirping offended cries, and when he glances sideways he realizes Ryan's doing the same.

They've changed their story now. "We're brothers, old friends of one of Beckett's servants, and we're going to stay with him to get away from the plague," Jon had said, and Ryan had just nodded. It won't hold up if they meet another curious traveler like Valdez - neither of them can keep up an act as well as Brendon had - but it ends up not mattering because they see no one. As the sun sinks lower in the sky, the road starts to flatten out and their horses pick their way around the potholes in the ground, and Ryan says, "When are we going to make camp?"

"We're not," says Jon. The road's surrounded by trees here, thickly-planted dark green pines. He counts them in his head - seven, eight, nine, ten - and feels a wave of relief as their horses draw level with the twelfth and there it is, the long pale slash in the wood, the two fallen branches. They're in the right place. "Here," he says. He tugs on his mare's reins, urging her off the road and into the thicket, onto a path you'd never know was there unless you had a reason to go looking. "Shortcut. Stick close behind me."

Five minutes later they're deep enough in the woods that the road has vanished from view; ten minutes later and it might never have existed. Jon ducks his head under low-hanging branches and keeps an eye out for new blazes that mean the path has changed. The forest is a natural maze and every few months Butcher comes out here and moves the snares and booby traps around. Jon knows that there are branches rigged to fall if you walk under them, deep sheer-sided pits hidden under layers of forest debris, near invisible trip-lines meant to lame horses and send riders flying. When he looks back over his shoulder, Ryan is scowling and he's got pine needles in his hair, a rip in his jacket. The horse he's riding, Wentz's carriage horse, is built for open roads, and he's too big for this sort of thing.

"Don't wander off," Jon cautions again. "This place is full of traps if you don't know the way through."

Ryan rolls his eyes. "Because of course I'm going to wander away from the person who knows where we're going," he retorts, and he winces as a tanglewood briar catches at his leg. "This had better be over soon."

Jon thinks it won't take Ryan long to get used to being free again, to _acting_ free. Somewhere in his mind, he was never really anything else.

Up ahead, a tall fence and a rusting, padlocked iron gate come into view: the back way into the Beckett place. Jon has the key on a chain around his neck.

He jumps down from his horse, and behind him Ryan does the same. The key fits into the lock with a soft scrape, and despite its rusty appearance the gate swings open without a sound. Jon leads his horse through, gesturing for Ryan to follow. He closes the gate and replaces the lock behind him, and he's just slipping the key back around his neck when a branch snaps behind him.

"Oh, look. Little kiddies lost in the woods."

Jon hears Ryan's sharp intake of breath, but he turns around slowly, smiling. "Damn it. And here I thought we'd be able to make it without running into any wild animals."

Butcher laughs and steps out of the shadows. He's holding a rifle but it's not raised. "As noisy as you are, Walker? Every wolf within ten miles know you're here."

"I've heard they don't like surprises," Jon replies. "Nice of you to bring the welcoming party."

"Shit, man," Butcher says, his grin vanishing. He claps Jon on the back, takes the reins of Jon's horse, and leads them through the forest. "We've been fucking worried about you. Tommy showed up about a week ago, said you'd be right along. What the fuck happened?"

"Long story," says Jon. "Butcher, this is Ryan. Ryan, this is Butcher. His real name is Andy, but he makes everyone call him Butcher so we can all pretend to be scared of him."

Butcher nods a greeting. "Hey."

Ryan hesitates, then answers quietly, "Hello."

With a raised eyebrow, Butcher asks Jon, "This is Patrick's singing friend?"

"No," Jon says. "No, this is - well. Long story."

"Okay." He seems to understand Jon's reluctance to tell the story right there. "Plenty of time for that over dinner. We've got news, too. William was here a few days ago, and he says the snake-man himself is going to be stopping by soon."

"He is?" Jon asks, surprised. At Ryan's confused glance, he explains, "He means the man who runs this whole thing, the one who started it. I've never met him - most of us haven't, we don't even know his name, just that he signs all his letters with a seal that's got a snake on it. A cobra."

"Snake-man," Butcher says with a nod. "I guess he's not too happy about the trouble going down. You know that the army grabbed some of Pete's people right after he made the purchase? Just marched right up and waved their guns and demanded -"

"Yeah," Jon says quickly, not looking at Ryan. "Yeah, we know, we... Yeah."

"Joe was royally pissed about that, and he thinks it won't be the last time." They come out of the woods into a clearing around an old house. The windows glow with light, and Jon can hear voices and laughter inside. Butcher reaches for the reins to Ryan's horse. "You guys go on inside. I'll make Sisky get off his lazy ass to take care of the horses."

Jon can practically feel the warmth of the fire already, and he's heading toward the door, Ryan on his heels, as he says, "Thanks. I owe you."

"We're just glad to have you back safe, man."

Inside he's hit by a blast of warmth and light and noise, and he blinks for a moment, disoriented, before he realizes that the noise is cheering and shouted greetings, that every person in the room is looking at him with warmth in their eyes. He feels himself grin in response, and he takes a couple of steps further in and says, "So I guess you missed me?"

And then there's Tom, Tom on his feet with his arm in a sling, standing in front of him with an uncontrollable smile and saying, "Jonny Walker, we fucking well _pined_ ," and Jon didn't realize he'd been afraid until the relief starts to uncoil in him, because Tom looks healthy, he looks fine, and Travis has obviously seen to his arm.

"Sorry, I'm late, then," he says with a smirk, and he opens his arms. Tom bursts out laughing and hugs him one-armed, the sling an awkward encumbrance between them. "You really had us worried," he murmurs next to Jon's ear.

"I'm all right," Jon says back.

Tom steps back and his eyes narrow, looking over Jon's shoulder - looking at Ryan, Jon realizes. "Ross," he says.

Ryan's standing by the doorway, his posture tense and uncomfortable, not coming any further into the room. He nods at Tom, a tiny movement.

"You weren't kidding when you said you could ride, were you?"

"You were right, he found me first," answers Ryan.

Tom's face breaks into a grin, and he marches over to Ryan, offers his good hand for a shake. Ryan hesitates before he takes it. Jon watches the weirdly formal greeting, sees how Ryan holds himself back, apart, nervous, even as Tom says, "I'm Tom," and he answers, "Ryan." Tom seems to spot his discomfort too, because he doesn't touch Ryan for long and steps out of his space afterwards. "Ryan Ross, gentlemen," he says to the room at large. "Fucking lifesaver."

"No joke," says Jon. "I'd have kept riding straight into a full cavalry patrol if he hadn't caught me in time."

Then the guys are cheering some more, and someone yells for Ryan to come the fuck in and close the door already. Ryan does it, but once he's in he looks straight at Jon, panicked. Jon moves without thinking to stand a little closer to him, give him someone to hide behind. He doesn't hear Tom's question the first time he asks it, and Tom has to repeat, "What happened to the other one?"

"Shit," Jon says. He suddenly feels very tired. He walks over to the table and sits down, and Ryan takes the chair beside him, perching on the edge as though he's ready to bolt. "We ran into some trouble."

He tells them about meeting up with Ryan, about hiding in the woods while soldiers prowled all around, and about finding Spencer outside their little cave. Ryan lets Jon do the talking.

"He _escaped?_ " Mike asks incredulously from down the table. "How the fuck did he manage that? Joe said there must've been a dozen soldiers in that 'requisitioning' party."

Ryan says quietly, "He's really smart."

Jon doesn't know if anyone hears it except for him. He shrugs and says, "It didn't last," and tells the rest of the story. In retrospect it sounds like the worst plan in the world, but nobody calls him on it.

When he tells them about Brendon taking off in the night, Butcher, leaning in the doorway behind him, asks, "Think they've got any chance?"

Jon looks at Ryan for a long moment. Ryan stares at his hands in his lap. "I don't know," Jon says finally.

"We'll keep an eye out," Butcher says.

Somebody sets a plate of food in front of Jon and he starts eating automatically. The conversation moves to other things, news and rumors from all around. Jon tries to listen, but he's tired and distracted, and next to him Ryan is only picking at his food. Eventually someone notices that Jon is about to fall asleep in his plate, and they head upstairs. The house is empty except for the Cobra people, none of Pete’s rescued slaves left: the Beckett safehouse is a slick operation, their last big one now that the Asher place is gone. In the past week, Jon knows, the guys here have arranged positions, forged papers, moved all the people saved from the caravan into towns and homes further from the border. Jon’s been here times when every bedroom is full of people traveling or healing, but tonight there's room enough for him and Ryan to have separate rooms. There are fires burning on the hearths in each and hot water on the basins.

"They really must've been worried," says Jon through a long yawn. "Usually they make me carry my own water."

"Maybe they really want you to bathe," Ryan says. He hesitates in the doorway to his own room.

Jon's yawn turns into a short laugh. "Yeah, that's probably it. I'll see you in the morning, okay?"

"Jon."

Jon stops with his hand on the doorknob. "Yeah?"

"Thank you," Ryan says. He vanishes into his room, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Jon doesn't bother lighting any candles. The firelight is enough for him to undress and wash himself, to crawl into the bed and pull the worn blankets up to his chin. He knows it hasn’t been so long, really, but it feels like an age since he last had a real supper or slept in a real bed. It's a cold, damp night. He hopes Ryan is warm enough.

And then he thinks about Brendon out there somewhere, shivering in the woods or already captured, and Spencer in a rat-infested cell or chained to a lines of slaves stumbling toward the silver mines, and he rolls over, presses his face to the pillow, and tries not to think anymore.

A soft knock wakes him just as he's drifting to sleep. He sits up and calls out hoarsely, "Yeah?"

The door opens; it's Ryan. The fire has burned down almost to embers, but there's enough light for Jon to see that he's trembling. "Ryan? What is it?"

Ryan takes a shaky step forward. "I don't know what to do."

Slowly, Jon asks, "What do you mean?"

"You said - I didn't believe you. I thought you were lying." It sounds like an apology, but Jon doesn't interrupt him. "About this place, these people, but now we're - it's not like I don't remember. Of course I remember, I was fifteen. But we had land, and I always knew it would be mine. I didn't even want it, I fought with my father all the time, but I knew it would be mine, I just thought - I'm a terrible farmer, but I thought Spencer would be there to... Everything I was going to do, it was both of us, and I never told him, I never even told him I was going to set him free, and now he's gone, he's _gone_ , they took him and he's all I ever - and I can't... I don't know what to do," he says again, miserably. "All I know how to do now is..."

"Hey. Hey, come here." Jon reaches out, waits for Ryan to step toward him. After a moment's hesitation Ryan sits on the edge of Jon's bed. "I know, okay? I know it's fucking scary." He puts a hand on Ryan's shoulder, and Ryan leans into him. Jon pulls him into a hug. "You don't have to know anything right now. We're not just going to leave you to fend for yourself, Ry. Everybody we rescue freaks out a little bit at first." Jon closes his eyes and smiles a little sadly into Ryan's hair. "Usually it takes a while longer, but I guess you're precocious. And," he adds, rubbing one hand gently up and down Ryan's back, "I think that's the most I've heard you say since we met. Is that normal? 'Cause I gotta say, if this rambling thing is normal for you, that's going to take some getting used to."

Ryan makes a soft, snuffling sound against Jon's shoulder.

"Okay?" Jon whispers.

Ryan nods and starts to pull away. "I'll just -"

"You don't have to." As soon as he says it, Jon winces inwardly, and he rushes to explain. "I mean, only, it's a big, strange place, if you can't sleep you can..."

There's a moment when he thinks it's the wrong thing to say, that Ryan will close up again, but he only nods and says, "Yeah. Yeah, okay. Thanks."

Jon moves over and folds the blankets back to let Ryan crawl in beside him, lies down carefully so he's not touching, not crowding. He waits until Ryan's breathing turns slow and even, then he lets himself fall asleep.

[Chapter Five](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/1818.html)


	6. But Not the Song (5/17)

_  
**But Not the Song (5/17)**   
_   
[Story Index and Warnings](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/446.html)

[Chapter Four](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/1544.html)

  
**  
_ix._   
**

It takes a lot longer for Brendon to go down the mountain than he expects, and it's almost morning before he nears the checkpoint again. He's been moving parallel to the road for most of the night, but when he hears the sounds of men shouting and horses galloping he veers deeper in the woods. At the first sight of the fortress, he scrambles up a hill to the south of it, hiding in the low bushes until he finds a relatively safe vantage point. The fortress is no more than a collection of wooden buildings surrounded by a makeshift earth and stone wall.

Brendon sits at the base of an oak tree, leaning against the massive roots and pretending they make a comfortable chair. There is already a gang of slaves shuffling slowly along the base of the wall, shovels and picks in hand as they make repairs. It's the only fortress in the region and the best place for gathering slaves before marching them off to the silver mines, but he can't even be sure this is where they've taken Spencer. Brendon's too far away to hear the clank of their chains or the shouts of the soldiers watching over them, and he can't see them clearly enough to tell if any of them are familiar.

So he waits. He can't do anything during daylight anyway.

By nightfall, Brendon is restless, hungry and bored out of his mind, but he also has the routes of the fortress patrols memorized, a good idea what most of the buildings inside the wall are used for, an estimate of how long it would take him to climb the wall and how many soldiers would be able to shoot him before he succeeded, and a completely revised opinion of what it must be like to be an agent in a secret society. Jon is a rotten liar, there's nothing exciting about it. His mind keeps wandering, even though he's trying to watch the fortress carefully. He wonders what Jon said when he found his note, whether he's surprised or upset, if he even cares at all. He wonders what Ryan said, what Jon told him, if he even -

Then he stops wondering. Ryan will be glad to be rid of him.

The thought makes Brendon feel sick to his stomach, so instead he starts making up stories about the kitchen maid who comes outside the fort every hour to toss something on the trash heap and hangs around waiting until the young soldier on patrol happens to wander by. They must really like each other, he thinks, to secretly meet for kissing on the trash heap every hour. They've been at it all afternoon. Maybe her father hates the young soldier but they've sworn to love each other anyway and -

And she always leaves the gate open when she goes out.

It's not fully dark yet, but Brendon is on his on his feet and scrambling down the hillside before he can think twice. There's a wide patch of field between the edge of the forest and the fortress wall, but the grass is long and the patrols are far enough apart that Brendon's pretty sure he can make it. If he's fast. If they aren't looking at him. If they don't mistake him for a deer in the twilight and shoot him for supper.

Brendon counts to ten after the last soldier walks past. _Now or never_. He ducks his head low and _runs._

He's expecting a shout or gunfire, but there's only the sound of his own breathing and the swish of the long grass around him. The ground is pockmarked with hidden holes and he stumbles a few times, but he rights himself quickly. He runs until he's close enough to throw himself bodily into the trash pit, well out of sight of the patrolling soldiers.

He lands on something that smells and feels a lot like the entrails of last night's supper, but he remains perfectly still, listening. He doesn't hear any cries of alarm. Inside the gate there is only the normal racket of a kitchen preparing for the evening meal. He crawls around until he has a better view of the door.

It feels like he waits forever, but eventually the door opens and the young woman emerges, a slender silhouette in the warm firelight. Sure enough her soldier is along a few moments later. They go about their usual business, making ridiculous cooing noises at each other and whispering silly names, and Brendon creeps as quietly as he can toward the open gate. When he's within a few feet he makes a dash for it, darts through the doorway and dodges to the side, looking around wildly for something, anything that might hide him.

He ends up underneath a heavy wooden table, jammed against the wall and holding his breath. He's in the fort. Inside. In the kitchen. There are people everywhere. He has no idea where the slaves are kept or how he'll find them or get out again.

But he's inside.

People run to and fro, weaving in and out of each other. Sometimes there's a tinkling crash as two of the women darting in and out of the crowd collide; they're carrying bowls heaped high as their heads, and crockery goes flying everywhere. Brendon shrinks as far into the shadows as he can get and hopes that it gets quieter later on, so he can sneak out and look around. Find Spencer.

He tries not to think about the possibility that Spencer might not even be here. If he's not here, he's dead already - or else in the mines, which is dead but slow. They'll never get him back from the mines.

It does quiet down eventually. Apparently Brendon managed to make his entrance in the middle of the supper rush, because a few hours later the kitchen has emptied out except a few women mopping the floors in dead silence. It's not until they're done and the last remaining cook curtly gives the dismissal that he realizes they're slaves. Then there's no one left but the cook, who throws a couple of pieces of wood on the stove fire, yawns hugely, and walks over to the table where Brendon's hiding. Brendon's breathing nearly stops.

She crouches down, a half-smile on her round, motherly face, and says, "All right, you'd better come out of there now."

Brendon swallows. He doesn't say anything, he can't, but he crawls out and gets to his feet. The cook looks at him, pitying but kind. "I know how it is. It's the first day, you don't know anyone. It's all a lot faster and noisier than you're used to and the soldiers tease you, and all you want to do is hide."

"I -"

 _What?_

"You're one of the new batch, right? I know they brought in a couple of dozen in today, and they promised me a few. What's your name?"

Brendon stares blankly at her and takes far too long to think of something. "Alex," he says at last. "Um."

She rolls her eyes. "And I always get the stupid ones," she mutters to herself. "All right, Alex, here's how it goes. Today I'm going to be understanding, because my first mistress always said you catch more flies with honey. _Next_ time I catch you pulling a trick like that you get six of the best from our very own Sergeant Green, and you won't forget that in a hurry."

"You're a slave?" Brendon blurts.

She gives him a narrow look. "I _was_ a slave. Now I'm a freedwoman. That's how it works in the army, boy. Do right by your country and it'll do right by you. And you can start by doing as you're told." She yawns again. "Dear god, it's late, those lazy girls. We're up before dawn around here - you know where you're being kept?"

"I - yes," says Brendon. He doesn't want anyone escorting him anywhere, especially not to the fort's slave quarters. If he's loose he can explore, and say he was lost if he gets caught.

"That's something, at least. I'm off to bed. You can do one job for me and then you'd better be asleep too."

"Yes ma'am," says Brendon. "Um - what should I do?"

She shakes her head. "Ask fewer questions, for starters. See that pail over there?" Brendon nods. "That's the last of today's water. You can take some out to that poor stupid kid in the stocks. No one cares as long as the slaves meant for the mines don't see it."

"I - where -"

The cook rolls her eyes again. "Out that door, through to the parade ground, and it's right by the officers' quarters. _Always_ the stupid ones," she finishes, more or less to herself. "Don't clatter around making noise. They've got the Valdez nephew or whoever he is in there having dinner with Marling, and they won't want to be disturbed."

Brendon nods, mute. He definitely doesn't want to disturb the Valdez nephew or whoever he is, because it's probably Shane and Shane will recognize him. "I - who," he begins.

"Questions, Alex," she reminds him. "What is it?"

"Who's in the stocks?" he asks.

"Oh, just some runaway. Poor, poor kid. They brought him in yesterday morning." She gives him a little shove. "Get going."

Nobody pays him any attention as he jogs through the parade ground. Most of the fort has gone to sleep, but there is still laughter and light spilling out of what he guesses are the officers' quarters. He lowers his head as he goes by the windows and door, even though he doubts anybody will be looking out. He rounds a corner at the end of the long building, and there are the stocks.

Spencer is on his knees, his head and arms trapped between the boards, and the packed dirt around him is littered with stones and bits of rotten fruit. Brendon bites back an angry snarl and hurries forward, slashing water over the edge of the bucket in his haste.

Spencer's head snaps up as he approaches. Even in the shadows Brendon can see the look of terror on his face.

"What -" Spencer's voice is dry, barely a croak, but Brendon shakes his head quickly to silence him.

"Quiet," he whispers. He sets the bucket on the ground and reaches out cautiously, hesitating when Spencer flinches. He feels a momentary flash of worry that Spencer doesn't recognize him at all, that whatever they've done - there were slaves in the caravan who didn't know their own names anymore, the mercenaries joked about it. "Hey. Hey, Spencer, it's me, I won't hurt you."

"What -" Spencer stops again, tries to lick his lips. Brendon holds the wooden ladle to Spencer's lips drink so he can drink. Water dribbles down Spencer's chin, and without thinking Brendon reaches to wipe it away; Spencer doesn't flinch away from him again. "What the fuck are you doing here, Brendon?"

Brendon fills the ladle again. "I'm enlisting in the army, dumbass, what do you think I'm doing?" Spencer's eyes widen with alarm, and Brendon rushes to explain. "No, no, we didn't get caught. We didn't. You - we got away. I snuck in."

Spencer stares at him.

"To get you out," Brendon adds. He stands up and leans over the stocks for a better look. "Is this thing - okay, it's not even locked, there's just a pin and I can lift -"

There's a burst of laughter somewhere behind him, and Brendon whirls around, his heart pounding. A few men walk by, not even glancing toward the stocks, and he exhales slowly. He goes back to work pulling the pin out; they fucking pounded it into place, if he had a rock or something to -

Spencer makes a noise, not quite a word, and Brendon straightens up immediately. "What is it?"

Too late, he realizes that was exactly the wrong thing to do.

"Oh, I didn't see you, I was just - _Sir Brendon_?"

Brendon stares. He can't say anything. He can't even move.

It's Shane - of _course_ it is, the one person in the whole fucking fort who would recognize him - and he's striding toward the stocks, staring at Brendon with wide eyes. "What the hell are you doing?"

Brendon has the stocks pin in one hand and he's lifting the upper board; he thinks the answer to that should be pretty fucking obvious. "What the fuck does it look like?" he snaps, before he can stop himself. And suddenly he's angry, he's so fucking _furious_ , he can barely feel the fear anymore. He swings the upper board of the stocks over, releasing Spencer's head and arms, then hurls the pin at Shane so hard Shane winces when it strikes his chest. "What the fuck is it with you? Are you doing it on purpose, or is it just our dumb fucking luck that you show up to ruin everything everywhere we go?"

Shane gapes at him: his lips move, but no sound comes out, and Brendon glares at him, defiant. Neither of them moves. The moment lasts so long that Brendon feels that the world has shrunk to their frozen staring match, that as long as he can keep Shane gaping at him he hasn't lost yet. When Shane looks away it'll be to sound the alarm. _Then_ he's lost.

Shane's expression shifts, and Brendon doesn't realize what's going on until Spencer's already managed to shoulder in front of him, using a hand on Brendon's chest to force him to stumble back a pace. Now he's lost the staring contest after all, but Shane's watching Spencer instead, and Spencer's watching Shane with a hard expression in his eyes that Brendon's starting to recognize. His feet are planted and he's standing up straight in spite of how tired and hurting he has to be, and in the red firelight pouring from the windows of the officers' quarters he looks dangerous.

"Brendon," he says without turning his head. "Run."

Brendon shakes his head. He's shaking all over, actually, but he's not going anywhere, not after he got _so close_. There has to be a way out, there has to be, if they can just get past Shane and Marling and hundreds of soldiers and slaves. There's got to be some way. "How many times," he asks, his voice uneven, "how many times do you think you can do the noble self-sacrifice thing in two days?"

"I didn't do it at all last week, I'm catching up," replies Spencer without looking away from Shane and is that a fucking joke? How can he joke right now? "So if you could just shut up and fucking _run away_ now -"

"You don't," interrupts Shane, and Brendon looks up, glares at him again. He's not running. He's not going back to Ryan and Jon alone. "You don't even have _weapons_ , you." Shane doesn't look angry or outraged or threatening, he just looks confused. "You'd _do_ that for a slave?"

"He's not a slave," says Brendon instantly.

"I am, you know," says Spencer.

"You - you were meant to be _free_. Ryan said -"

"What," says Shane, "what, what's going on? Who _are_ you?"

"Nobody," Brendon says. "We're nobody."

"But..." Shane shakes his head slowly. "But they'll kill you if they catch you. Why are you - they'll _kill_ you."

"I know," Brendon says. Spencer looks like he's about to say something, and Brendon touches his arm to stop him, still watching Shane. "I had to try anyway."

Shane stares at him for a long, silent moment. His expression shifts, the confusion fading away into - something else, and Brendon can't decipher it at all.

Then Shane takes a step back and turns away, and Brendon feels dismay so powerful he can scarcely breathe. It's too late. He's going to raise the alarm, and there's no way they can get out of here quickly enough. Spencer grabs Brendon's arm and shoves him forward -"Run, run, _run_ ," he hisses, low and urgent - but Brendon hasn't stumbled two steps when Shane reaches out and grabs a handful of his shirt.

Brendon swings his arms wildly but Spencer is faster; his punch catches Shane square in the jaw.

"Ow, _fuck_ ," Shane splutters. "What are you - stop! Are you stupid?"

Spencer pulls Brendon away from him. "Run, _now._ "

"No!" Shane recovers quickly and jumps in front of Brendon. "Just - just wait. Don't hit me again, just - look, if you go up the parade ground right now, about twenty officers are going to see you and _shoot you_ , okay? They're standing outside, talking and - they'll see you."

"What do you..." Brendon stops. "What?"

Shane points. "Go behind the buildings instead. To wherever - I don't know how the hell you got in, but there won't be anybody back there."

Brendon doesn't move. "What are you -"

"Okay," says Spencer, his voice sharp. "Behind the buildings. _Now_ can we run?"

"We can... yeah." Brendon nods, starts to walk backward quickly, afraid that if he looks away Shane will change his mind and start shouting, bring the soldiers down on them. "Yeah, now we can run."

They run behind the buildings of the fort, ducking low beneath the windows of the barracks, all the way back to the kitchen. There's nobody in the kitchen at this hour and the gate is barred from the inside. Brendon tosses away the plank and hisses at Spencer to hurry - and then he has to stop, because Spencer isn't moving. He's leaning heavily against the kitchen table Brendon hid beneath earlier, and his head is ducked and his expression twisted with pain. " _Spencer_ ," Brendon says.

Spencer says, "Sorry - sorry -" He flexes his fingers convulsively, staring at them like he doesn't trust his hands to move on their own, and Brendon can see he's shaking a little. After a few seconds he looks up and says, "I - one minute, two minutes, I _can't._ "

"We need to run," Brendon whispers.

"I know," Spencer says. "I -" His face contorts. "Just give me - _fuck_."

Brendon knows what the problem is at once: barely-healed damage from the whipping, the best part of two days in the stocks, not nearly enough food. Spencer's _hurt_ , even if he didn't let it show in front of Shane. But they can't stay here. They have to move.

"Just a second, I swear," says Spencer. "No one's around -"

Brendon thinks back to what the cook said earlier, _We're up before dawn around here_ , and tries to judge how much time has gone past. It was already after midnight, he thinks, when he went out with the pail of water. They don't have long. But Spencer's face is white, his mouth tight with pain. "Sit down," Brendon says.

Spencer shakes his head. "I'm fine, I only need - Brendon, we can't hang around here -"

Brendon walks across to him, puts his hand on Spencer's shoulder and pushes lightly. "Sit _down_ ," he whispers. "I know we can't. Just let me - is your back…?"

"They didn't," murmurs Spencer as he slumps gratefully against the table and slides down to the floor, "they didn't beat me, they just -"

So that's something. _Up before dawn_ , Brendon thinks again, and he looks wildly around the kitchen, there has to be - " _Food_ ," he says. "Quickly, we'll -" There's a huge pot of leftover stew sitting out on the cold stove. He grabs a bowl - dirty, but that's the last thing that matters right now - and scoops up a helping with it, slopping some over his hand and scrubbing it off automatically on his trousers. "Here," he says, bringing the bowl across the room to Spencer. "Eat something, quick, you'll feel stronger -"

"You too," says Spencer.

They share it, grabbing gobbets of meat out of the bowl with their fingers and shoving them in their mouths. It doesn't exactly taste good but it's _food_ , and Brendon's hungry enough that he licks his fingers when they're done. They don't have time for any more. They didn't even really have time for that. They have to be long gone before anyone notices the stocks are empty, before dawn.

Brendon touches Spencer's hand and whispers, "Okay?"

"Okay," says Spencer, though he still looks like hell. "Help me up?"

Brendon turns his touch on Spencer's hand into a firm grip and pulls, and Spencer's breath rushes out in a pained gasp as he stumbles to his feet, but then he straightens his shoulders and whispers, "Right," squeezing Brendon's hand once before he lets it go. "Run."

"Yeah," breathes Brendon, and they're so _close_ , and he's so afraid. They duck through the kitchen door one after the other, and Brendon pauses for just a fraction of a second in the shadow of the fortress wall, just to check Spencer's still with him, that he's actually _done it_ \- and then both of them are slipping over the foul-smelling garbage heap and racing into the tall grass.

Too late - halfway across the field, too fucking _late_ \- Brendon remembers the foot patrols. He hears the shouts at the same instant he hears the first gunfire.

_

 **  
_x._   
**

_It's Ryan's idea to try to escape the caravan._

 _"We can do it," he says._

 _Spencer has a sprained wrist and black eye, but he won't tell Ryan what happened. "It's nothing, Ry," he says, again and again. "It's nothing."_

 _"We can make it," Ryan says. He doesn't have anything to wrap Spencer's wrist; it's too cold to use their tattered clothes. "They're not watching all the time."_

 _Spencer doesn't exactly agree, but he runs when Ryan tells him to run. And maybe the guards aren't watching all the time, but they are watching that night. They don't even make it past the field outside of the camp before they hear the thundering of hooves and they're surrounded by men on horseback, angry shouts and cracking whips, and worst of all - when they're on their knees and bound again, Spencer with his head bent silently and Ryan snarling whenever the guards touch him - worst of all, the laughter and jeers. "Didn't make it very far, did you?" one guard says. "We should've just run 'em down, the fucking princess is too much trouble," another says. "Master wants him for something special," a third says, bored and impatient. "Don't mess up that pretty face."_

 _The fear that slams into Ryan immediately is a hundred times worse than what he felt when the horses galloped after them. He snaps his head up and struggles against the ropes. "It was my idea," he says, his voice rising in panic. "It was my idea, I made him run, it was my fucking_ idea _-"_

 _He breaks off with a choked cry when one of the guards grabs his hair and wrenches his head back, leans down so close Ryan can smell the stale beer on his breath. "Is that so?" the man asks, grinning. "I guess I'm not really surprised by that, little whore. I really wish the master would let me fuck up your face." He shoves Ryan's head back so hard Ryan falls to the mud. "Put him in the fucking cage," the guard says as he mounts his horse again. "Bring the other one."_

 _"No, no, no," Ryan's babbling, he knows it's useless, knows they won't listen, but he can't shut up even when they haul him to his feet and drag him back toward the camp. "It was_ my idea _, he didn't do anything, it was my idea."_

 _At the edge of the camp, the guard unlocks the padlock on the behave-yourself wagon and shoves Ryan in, stepping easily aside when Ryan lashes out and kicks at him. "Nobody fucking cares if it was your idea, sweetheart," the guard says, before Ryan can open his mouth again. "You're too fucking stupid to be worth the bother." He locks the cage, rattles the bars for good measure, and walks away._

 _There's already somebody in the cage. He's about Ryan's age, and he's been in the caravan about as long as they have. Ryan's surprised to see him there; the kid usually behaves. More than behaves, plays along - lets the guards fuck him for extra bread or water, bats his eyes and sways his hips and talks in a breathy voice about how much he loves it._

 _"You should teach your friend to suck cock," the boys says. He rolls over lazily and stretches out as much as he can in the cramped space, looking for all the world like he's reclining on a feather bed rather than locked in a filthy, rusty cage. "They'll treat him better if he learns some useful skills." He reaches across the cage and brushes his hand along Ryan's arm._

 _Ryan slaps his hand away, but he can't move back, there's no place to go. "_ Shut up _," Ryan snarls. "Shut the fuck up. Don't even talk about him."_

 _The boy laughs. "Aww, why not? You don't want to share your pet? He's not really my type, but I would -"_

 _Ryan swings wildly - there's no room but he's close enough and it's fast enough, and he strikes the boy's face with a solid, satisfying punch. "Shut up," he says again, into the surprised silence. "Shut up. I will fucking kill you."_

 _The boy is quiet for a moment, then he laughs again. "You're so pretty when you're angry, princess." His voice is a dead-on mockery of the guards'._

 _Ryan turns away, tucks himself into the corner of the cage, and does everything he can to pretend the other boy doesn't exist. It's too dark to see what's going on in the camp. He can hear the guards shouting, though, laughing and taunting, and he doesn't know what they're doing. He doesn't know where they took Spencer. He could be with the other slaves, trying to sleep on the cold ground, or he could be over by the fire, where the guards are drunk and bored and looking for entertainment. There are a couple of gladiators in the caravan and every night the guards have been picking little kids or old men or scared girls for them to fight. Ryan can't see what's happening. He can only listen to the racket._

 _Later, much later, the camp is quiet, and the only people awake are the guards making circuits about the perimeter. One guard passes by the cage a few times, snorting with amusement when he sees Ryan watching him. On his third round he stops._

 _"Fun night," the man says._

 _Ryan doesn't say anything. He won't ask._

 _"Lots of excitement. Some property got damaged, though. The master won't be too happy."_

 _Ryan's heart stops for a moment. He struggles to breathe. The master doesn't care what the guards do to the slaves, he never has, not unless -_

 _Not unless somebody got so hurt they're not worth anything._

 _Not unless somebody got killed._

 _The guard goes on, "But you probably don't care to hear about all that."_

 _The other boy in the cage rolls over and says, "Our little darling here won't lower himself to trading favors for information."_

 _"Shut the hell up," the guard says, but it's more an automatic response than a real threat. "But I guess you're probably right." He starts to walk away._

 _"Wait!" Ryan unfolds himself quickly, grabs the bars of the cage. "Wait."_

 _The guard comes back, and he smirks as he unlocks the cage. "You are so fucking easy." He grabs Ryan by the hair and hauls him out, shoves him to his knees and says, "Keep your teeth to yourself or I'll cut your fucking throat."_

 _Ryan keeps his teeth to himself, as tempting as it is to bite the man's dick right off and make a run for it again. But he can't - he_ won't _. He'll play their fucking game right now. He can do that, at least, and he doesn't gag when the man thrusts too hard, tugging his hair to hold his head in place. The guard doesn't take his time - a few grunts, a few thrusts, and he's coming down Ryan's throat, dragging him to his feet again and shoving him into the cage. He tucks himself into his trousers at a leisurely pace, closes the metal door and snaps the lock into place, and starts to walk away._

 _"You said -" Ryan stops. So fucking stupid. He is so fucking stupid. He knows better than to believe them, no matter what the say._

 _The guard pauses about ten paces away and flicks a quick glance over his shoulder. "Your boyfriend is still alive. For now."_

 _The other boy in the cage starts laughing. There's a hysterical edge to his giggles as they bubble out of his mouth, and Ryan wants to hit him again. But he doesn't. He crawls into the corner of the cage and draws his knees up to his chest and buries his face in his arms._

 _Then he blinks and there's blood everywhere, suddenly there's blood, he can smell it, he can taste it, and the caravan master backhands him and yells, "Did you know about this?" Ryan looks around and everything's changed, he's not in the cage anymore, he's on his knees, on his knees at the edge of the encampment - and it's a different encampment._ Three weeks later _, says something in his head but he doesn't know how he knows that, and he's staring at a body. The other boy. There are long red gashes in his wrists, and Ryan feels a surge of hot crimson jealousy._ He got a knife _. Some guard got careless while he was getting his cock sucked, and the other boy stole his knife, and he - he fucking wasted it, that's what he did, all he could think to do was kill himself and now the guards won't get careless anymore._

 _"Fuck," the master is saying, "_ Fuck _, I paid way too much for that little cocksucker - you're all fired!" he screams at the guards. "Fired! I'm getting new mercs! And as for you, princess -" He grabs a handful of Ryan's hair and twists. " I guess you're off the hook. No more freebies in this caravan. But tonight -" His hand twists harder, and Ryan wonders if his hair is going to get ripped out at the scalp, thinks that'd knock a few thousand off his price and he smirks to himself, which makes the master slap him again -_

 _He blinks and it's later that night and he's on his knees, he’s got a mouthful of cock, he's choking, his eyes are watering, and the motherfucker thrusts again -_

 _And he blinks and he's staring through the bars of a cage and he can't see Spencer, can't see Spencer -_

 _And he blinks and there are gunshots, it's the raid again, and two burly men grab him by the wrists and Ryan howls and kicks -_

 _And he blinks and he's hearing Spencer scream like he did the first time he was beaten for something Ryan got wrong, but it's wrong because Spencer is being dragged away behind the soldiers' horses of the soldiers and he_ knows _Spencer was silent then -_

 _And he blinks and there's blood, the body of the boy without a name -_

 _And the boy opens his eyes and starts laughing -_

 _And Ryan's eyes are watering and he's on his knees again, fuck, he's on his knees again -_

 _And -_

Ryan jerks awake, gasping. His face is wet with tears.

It's late - no, early, not long before dawn. The fire in the hearth has burned down all the way. Jon is a still, warm lump on the other side of the bed. He sleeps with one hand half-tucked under his head.

Ryan sits up and looks at him for a while.

Eventually he tries a smile in the dark, to see what happens. Jon's worth smiling about. Somehow it goes the other way, though, and he feels his face twisting uncontrollably and he can't bear it, he can't bear it, even though it's dark and Jon's asleep and there's no one there to see.

He turns over so he can't see Jon any more, but that's not enough, so he buries his face in the pillow and puts his hands over his ears, trying to block out the world. In some ways it's easier when he pretends everything's gone, that it's finally all over and maybe he's like that boy now, lying in a pool of blood, and it's this place that's the dream. That makes so much more sense to him, somehow, than a world in which he's got freedom and a future and everything except Spencer.

_

 _  
**xi.**   
_

Spencer thinks there's something clean about running - something strong and fierce and simple about _moving_ , hearing the steady thud of your feet hitting the ground keep time with your own breathing. Beside him Brendon pants, " _Fuck_ ," and "- the woods," and Spencer knows what he means. It's still dark, dawn only a faint suggestion of steel-grey silhouetting the mountains, and if they can get across this field, if they can get to the trees, they can vanish in the shadows there. The patrol is shouting and running now, but they won't be able to keep up in the trees. They won't be able to get a clear shot.

Right now, though, he and Brendon are easy targets, and the shouting behind them resolves into, "Hold! Take aim! Fire!" Spencer feels the displacement of air cold against his face as a bullet whistles past and Brendon gasps, " _Fuck_ ," again, but he doesn't sound hurt.

Spencer keeps his head down and runs, watching his feet eat up the ground. Thirty feet and they're in the trees. Twenty. Fifteen. Ten ( _Hold, take aim, fire!_ and another round of shots explodes behind them), five, two, _yes_ , but he doesn't stop, just veers sideways around a young oak and keeps moving. His heart races and his breath comes shorter but there's something lashing through his veins that says _away, away, away, don't stop now, get the fuck away_. The yelling behind them grows quieter: the patrol hasn't followed them in.

" _Wait_ ," says Brendon behind him, "I can't -" Spencer stumbles to a halt and spins around to see Brendon bent over, red-faced, breathing hard. "I'm sorry," he says, "Ten seconds, it just - you're _hurt_!"

Spencer glances down and realizes that one of the bullets must have grazed him: there's a sluggish trickle of blood running down his right leg. He didn't even feel it. He hurts everywhere, in his back and his shoulders and neck and wrists. But he's used to it, he's fighting it. "I'm fine," he says. "We have to -"

He cuts off, because there's a new sound behind them. Not shouting or shots but a low baying, and then someone sounds a horn and one of the dogs - fucking _dogs_ \- howls. Spencer and Brendon look at each other for a moment, and they're running again.

"Water," Spencer manages to say, though his chest is aching with the effort of breathing. "We need -" _Running water, to hide us, to throw them off the scent_.

Brendon seems to get it because he veers left without warning and Spencer follows, hasn't got any choice but to trust him. Behind them the barking gets louder, and Spencer knows the soldiers won't be able to keep up with them - but they won't have to, they won't need to, because all the dogs have to do is chase the two of them until they're cornered or they can't run any more and then -

Spencer doesn't know what the _and then_ is. Ryan's father had liked his hunt dogs trained to kill what they caught, kill quick and clean and then wait for the hunters to give them their reward. Spencer knows because his father was the one who trained them, and when Spencer was small he slept piled in among the puppies in a big soft heap, until the day someone noticed and his father was whipped for treating the valuable hounds like pets, like friends.

Maybe these dogs have been trained the same way, to leap forward and rip out throats cleanly, and Spencer and Brendon are going to die like that, like animals. Or maybe the dogs are boarhounds, meant to track prey for more lethal hunters, and they'll corner them in a slavering circle, quivering with excitement, darting forward to nip and tease at their legs, waiting for their masters to catch up.

Spencer's feet pound the uneven forest soil; he doesn't dare look back. Ahead of them, a narrow clearing opens, and he hears the soft trickle of water.

The stream is shallow and not wide, but it'll do - it'll have to do. "We need to - into the mountains," Brendon gets out. Spencer doesn't answer, but when he feels the cold water washing around his feet he turns upstream. He can't judge how close the dogs are now. Too close. They're not going to get away. But he can't give up.

Too soon, much too close behind them, the pack leader erupts out of the trees; Spencer hears the crashing of brushwood and the confused yelp at the sudden disappearance of the scent, and he runs faster. Hunt dogs aren't stupid; it doesn't matter how difficult it is to track their scent when they're making a hell of a lot of noise, and the stream is getting deeper, the banks on either side packed thick with bushes. They can't get away from the water now.

Suddenly there's an almighty splash, and it takes Spencer a moment to realize Brendon isn't a few steps behind him anymore. He doubles back to grab Brendon by the arm and haul him up where he's gone sprawling in the water and shove him forwards. Behind them the dogs set up the howl again.

"Go, go, _go_ ," he chants, and they're running again, but now the dogs have seen them and they're splashing and scrambling through the shallow water behind.

They're not going to make it. They're never going to make it, and Spencer thinks, _At least we tried, at least I tried to_ and hopes stupidly that Ryan will know it somehow. Brendon gasps a final, heartfelt, " _Fuck_ ," and they stop running, have to stop, because they've run out of stream. The only thing ahead of them is a narrow trickle of waterfall over a twenty-foot cliff.

All Spencer's muscles are burning from the effort of running so hard for so long. He takes a couple of steps, squeezes his eyes shut and turns around to face the hounds.

Brendon says, "No," defiant and desperate, and his hands are on Spencer's arm, tugging him back. The spray flying up under the pack's paws wets their faces, and the dogs are baying their triumph as they pile forward behind their leader, and somewhere in the forest a horn sounds.

Brendon hisses, " _Climb._ "

He's hauling himself up the cliff face like a fucking monkey, and Spencer's reeling somewhere in his head but he doesn't have time to think. He just moves, he climbs, even as the first dog leaps and its teeth snap just to the left of his injured leg. _Climb_ , and his arms and shoulders hurt from being in the stocks, and the ache in his back resurges as a fiery pain, but he climbs. The dogs snarl and fling themselves at the cliff face, but they can't jump high enough. Soon the dogs stop trying; they wait at the foot of the cliff, a patient, hungry-eyed circle, hoping for one of them to fall.

Spencer's not letting himself think, not letting himself hope, yet there's something in him that won't stop doing either. The cliff is steep and the climb is slow, painful going after the first few feet, but maybe, _maybe_. Ten feet up and Brendon's looking down at him, offering him a quick, breathless grin; another five feet and the _maybe_ in Spencer's head is clamoring louder. The dogs are still waiting, watching malevolently, and it's a long way to fall, and the sounds of the horns are so close now their pursuers can't be more than a few hundred feet off.

Barely two feet from the top Spencer realizes he's out of handholds. He can't reach the top and there's nothing to grab and he's stuck.

Brendon glances down and sees the problem at once. He scrambles down the cliff face a little ways - he'd had a hand over the edge, he'd been nearly there - and says, "Here, me, use me."

Brendon looks too small and skinny to take his weight but he doesn't have any choice. Spencer brings one foot up to the next ledge and uses Brendon's shoulder as a handhold, and he's there, he's done it, he's scrambling over the top of the cliff just as the first of the huntsmen ride up to the bottom of the cliff. The brass buttons on their officers' jackets are shining, and the horn sounds one last time, and Brendon's still hanging there, spreadeagled, a perfect fucking target.

Spencer braces himself and stretches down, grabs Brendon's nearest wrist and _heaves_ , just as the shot rings out.

Brendon screams and his body jerks, twisting so much he nearly slips out of Spencer's grip. For a terrible, frozen moment, Spencer thinks he's lost his hold, but Brendon is babbling something and swinging, scrabbling at the slick stone. Spencer grabs a handful of branches with his free hand and pulls, hauling Brendon over the edge of the cliff.

Brendon rolls onto the ground beside him, whimpering and clutching his left shoulder. Another volley of shots rings out, and Spencer flattens himself to the ground beside Brendon.

"Shit, shit, are you -" Spencer reaches out to touch him, yanks his hand back when Brendon hisses in pain. "They hit you, they fucking hit you."

"Yeah," Brendon gasps. His breathing is ragged, but he uses his right hand to try to sit up. "Fucking fucking _fuck_ , you _fucking bastards_." Below the waterfall barking dogs and yelling soldiers answer his shout. Brendon breathes in and out, in and out, the sound ragged and broken with tiny, shocked whimpers of pain.

Spencer doesn't need to see them to know the dogs and men are looking for a way up the waterfall, maybe even climbing after them, and it won't take them long. "Come on," he says, grabbing Brendon's good arm and crawling away from the edge of the cliff. "Run, we have to run."

"They fucking _shot_ me," Brendon says incredulously. His words are sharp, and it takes him only a second to scramble to his feet after Spencer.

"They didn't shoot your leg, so _run_."

Brendon follows, and Spencer doesn't let go of his hand. He leads them back to the water, upstream from the fall, tumbles in and runs against the current. Over the splashing the dogs' baying sounds distant, and Spencer isn't sure he can hear the men at all anymore. The water is fucking cold and his feet are numb, and behind him Brendon is stumbling more with every step.

Spencer is still holding Brendon's hand, so he feels it when Brendon goes down. "Hey, no," Spencer says, turning around to haul him to his feet again. Brendon's surprisingly heavy and Spencer slips a little, shoved by the current. He hooks his hand under Brendon's uninjured arm to drag him out of the water. "C'mon, asshole, come on, just over to the bank, we'll get out of the water."

Brendon mumbles something unintelligible as Spencer tugs him onto dry land. There's a dark stain across his shirt.

"Fuck, fuck, sorry," Spencer says, falling to his knees beside Brendon. "We have to - shit, you're bleeding like fucking - we have to stop it -"

"'S'what happens," says Brendon. His eyes are half-closed and his words are slurring together. "They shot me. Dogs, the dogs, I don't..."

"The dogs?" Spencer looks up and holds his breath to listen. The water, Brendon's labored breathing, and - there, he can still hear the dogs, but they're farther away now. It's hard to judge in the forest, he knows how sounds can fuck with you and make things seem like they're in the wrong direction, too far or too close, but the dogs are definitely on the other side of the creek and some distance away. But that doesn't mean they have much time. They have to keep moving again, they _have_ to, even if he has to fucking carry Brendon himself. Spencer grabs the front of Brendon's shirt and pulls it open, buttons popping off. "I need to get this off you."

"All you have to do..." Brendon murmurs, "ask."

His eyes slip shut, and Spencer slaps his face impatiently. "Don't fucking do that, Brendon. Stay with me. Stay the fuck with me, let me stop this bleeding -" So much blood, so much fucking _blood_. It looks like the bullet went right through him, and Spencer's hands are shaking as he helps Brendon out of his shirt, wincing and murmuring apologies when Brendon bites back a cry of pain. "If you don't fucking stay with me, Brendon, I'm going to kick your ass."

Brendon huffs out a breath. "Promises, promises."

Spencer swallows a hysterical laugh and gets to work ripping up Brendon's shirt into strips. His hands are slippery with blood as he fumbles with them, and Brendon shudders and winces away every time Spencer's hands get too close to the damage. "Hurts," he murmurs. "Spence, it -"

"I know it fucking hurts, keep _still_ ," Spencer says, and Brendon doesn't bother to answer him but he moves less, his whole body taut with the effort of not flinching as Spencer's hands move clumsily over his shoulder. He ties the bandages tight, tight, as tight as he can. He doesn't know anything about gunshot wounds but he knows that if he can't stop the bleeding Brendon's got no chance at all. Brendon's eyes flutter open and closed and his breathing comes quick, ragged. It hasn't been all that long, Spencer thinks, since Brendon was doing this, something like this, for him. But it feels like a thousand years, and there's a world of difference between the nervous boy who bit his lip and insisted on getting them water in the caravan, and Brendon now, his head bowed and his body tense from the pain, whimpering a little on every exhale.

"There," says Spencer at last, "There, I, it's fine, it's, you're going to be fine," and Brendon makes a weird hiccupping noise on his next breath. Spencer realizes after a moment of panic that it's a giggle.

"I've been _shot_ ," Brendon says.

"No kidding," mutters Spencer. He uses a hand on Brendon's good shoulder and another on his waist to help him to his feet.

Brendon stumbles almost at once, and the slapdash dressing is already starting to stain red. But nothing's going to change if they stay here, waiting to be caught, waiting for Brendon to die. Spencer can't hear the dogs anymore but that doesn't mean the hunters have given up. They've got to get somewhere safe, and fast. "Do you know where we're going?" he asks. He's still got his hand resting at Brendon's waist, ready to catch him if he falls.

Brendon blinks slowly and swallows two or three times, and then he says, "Over the mountains." _I know_ , Spencer wants to snap, but Brendon licks his lips and shakes his head and repeats, "Over the mountains," and then, "Jon, Jon knows where - _fucking hell_ that - Jon said, over the mountains, just the other side, there's a, a place. The Beckett place, the -" And he stops again.

"The rendezvous," Spencer prompts.

"The rendezvous," Brendon breathes, almost a sigh. "You can, when you get there. You'll be safe." He forces himself to straighten up; Spencer can see the effort it costs him to lift his head and fix Spencer with an earnest look. "You, it's, it's okay, there's - Jon, Jon's got -" and he manages to force a goddamn smile, so fucking sincere and sweet and pained, and says, "Jon's got Ryan," and Spencer realizes Brendon's trying to reassure _him_.

"I'm more worried about you than Ryan right now," he answers, and he feels a distant wave of surprise that it's true. It's been a long fucking time since he's worried about anyone but Ryan. It's been a long time since he _cared_ about anyone but Ryan. "Come on, we have to keep moving." He lets Brendon lean on him as they head slowly uphill, praying that the hunters have given up, that the journey's not too long, that the place isn't too hard to find, that Brendon hasn't lost too much blood already.

Brendon chuckles next to him, more a rush of breath than anything else. "Ryan," he says. "You know, Ryan, he's, you know he's crazy?"

"I know," says Spencer. Ryan's been a little bit crazy as long as Spencer's known him. "Come on, Brendon, don't try to talk. We'll see them soon, right?"

Brendon laughs again, a quiet gasp, but doesn't say anything else.

Their progress is interminably slow. Brendon is so unsteady on his feet Spencer doesn't dare let him go, and with no trail to follow they're picking their way over rocks and logs, through gullies and across streams, climbing steadily upward. At some point - it might be mid-morning, it might be later, the clouds are too thick to see the sun - Spencer stops. He looks around until he finds a fallen log, partially sheltered by the boughs of a massive pine, and helps Brendon over to sit down.

Brendon breathes in and out slowly. He's pale and Spencer can see that every breath pains him, but he only says, "Just give me a minute, okay?"

Spencer sits beside him. "We'll take more than a minute."

"But shouldn't we..." Brendon pauses, breathes for a moment. "Shouldn't we keep moving?"

Instead of answering immediately, Spencer closes his eyes and listens. The clouds are low, wrapping them in a cold, thick fog. Everything is soft and muffled, as though every sound is coming from a great distance away. But Spencer has been paying attention, he's been listening, and he hasn't heard the dogs or soldiers in hours.

"Maybe we lost them," he says. "I don't hear anything."

Brendon leans against Spencer's side and rests his head on Spencer's shoulder. "You're really good at this escaping thing."

"I'm really not," says Spencer. If he was, he would have been able to save both himself and Ryan a long time ago. "We're probably not worth enough for them to bother. It's easier for them to go commandeer slaves from another caravan than to spend a day searching through the mountains."

"Probably," Brendon agrees. His voice is slurring again. "I hope Ryan and Jon made it to the rendezvous okay."

Spencer has been trying not to think about it; he and Brendon have enough things to worry about. But now, resting in the quiet forest, it's a lot easier to remember that he doesn't know this Jon Walker or his friends. He doesn't know if he can be trusted, or where he's taking Ryan, or who will be there waiting. He doesn't know anything except that when the old colonel came to him and said, "I know you're not in the army, boy," he hadn't had any kind of plan, he'd only thought _maybe_ , desperate and scared, _maybe they can get to safety, maybe this will work._

He says, "Yeah. I hope so."

"He loves you, you know," Brendon says. He's half asleep already, heavy and warm against Spencer's side.

Spencer swallows around the painful knot that's formed in his throat. He remembers, all in a flash, a warm summer several years ago, when he was maybe twelve or thirteen, before he'd ever thought he might not be on the Ross farm forever. He was supposed to be working in the garden; he was good at it and took care of things when his parents and all the adults were out in the fields. But Ryan came outside, bored with his lessons, and sprawled underneath a shady tree to talk to him. Spencer knew he should be annoyed, he was the one who would get in trouble if the work wasn't finished, but it was too much fun to listen and laugh and joke while Ryan made fun of all the girls in town his father thought he might marry some day. Ryan could be really mean when he was mocking people, but he always laughed big and loud when Spencer said something funny, and it was so easy to pretend. To pretend they were regular friends, like any other boys, like Spencer's family didn't live in a crooked hut behind the stables, like Ryan's father didn't own them as surely as he owned his horses and hunting dogs. Spencer knew his parents didn't like it; "It's nice that he favors you," his mother would say, a frown creasing her tired face, "but you're his slave, and you can never forget that." But when Ryan hung out with him in the garden - Ryan always found him, never the other way around - it was so easy to pretend.

Sometimes, Spencer thinks, sometimes he wonders if what he's been doing since the farm was raided, taking care of Ryan in every way he can, if he isn't paying Ryan back for all those warm, sunny days they spent laughing and playing. He doesn't like to think about it.

Brendon jerks a little, startling himself upright, and gasps with pain. "Oh, fuck, that hurts."

"You okay?" asks Spencer, alarmed.

"Yeah, I just - I think I fell asleep for a second." Brendon rubs his hand over his face. "We should -"

"Rest some more," Spencer says decisively. "For a little while, anyway. I don't think the soldiers are anywhere near us."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure," Spencer says, hoping he sounds more confident than he feels. "But on the ground, so you don't fall over when you fall asleep." He helps Brendon up and they limp tiredly over to the base of the tree. When Brendon sits down, Spencer sits right behind him. "It'll be warmer this way," he says, arranging his legs on either side of Brendon, "and it won't hurt you as much as the tree trunk."

Brendon only says, "Okay," and settles in, his back to Spencer's chest, his hair tickling Spencer's chin.

Spencer wraps one arm around Brendon's waist, careful not the jostle his injured shoulder. He doesn't intend to sleep, at least not for long, but he knows if he doesn't rest he's going to get confused and disoriented and it'll only make things worse in the long run.

"He does, you know," Brendon says suddenly.

"What? What are you - oh. You need to go to sleep," Spencer says, more harshly than he means to. "You don't know what the fuck you're talking about."

"People are always telling me that," says Brendon, and a few minutes later he's asleep.

Spencer rests his cheek lightly on the top of Brendon's head, closes his eyes, and listens to the forest.  
_

 **  
_xii._   
**

Jon rides out for three mornings in a row, and for three mornings in a row Tom goes with him.

"I'm not going to let you get your stupid ass arrested," says Tom. He's smiling when he says it but Jon knows him well enough to know it's anything but a joke.

"I'm not going far," Jon says, for the third time. It isn't safe for either of them to go far from the Beckett place; there are still warrants out for their arrest, and being on this side of the border doesn't protect them. "Just a ways up the road. Just in case."

Just in case there's a chance, but he doesn't say that part out loud. He doesn't need to say it to Tom or anyone else, and he doesn't tell Ryan where he's going. Ryan doesn't ask. Ryan doesn't say much of anything. He's unwilling to talk to most of the people around the estate, except Jon and sometimes Travis, but Jon thinks that's mostly because a person would have to be made out of stone to resist when Travis is smiling and teasing and sneakily checking for injuries.

But everybody else - Ryan moves around the estate quietly, watching and listening. Jon had thought maybe the cracks he's seen would help, that he'd be able to figure out what's under Ryan's armor, but he feels like he's learning less every day.

"If they could get away from the army," Tom begins. "It's a pretty big if..."

Jon winces; he's knows Tom's just trying to help, to make him see the odds, but he's been over it a thousand times in his mind already. "I know," he says. "I know there's almost no chance, but..."

"But none of us would be here if we weren't starry-eyed idealists stuck in a cold, hard world," Tom sing-songs, gazing up at the sky with wide eyes.

Jon laughs. "Speak for yourself, Conrad. I have no stars in my eyes."

"Uh-huh."

They ride for a few minutes. It's stupid, Jon knows it's stupid, but he watches the road ahead like two figures are going to appear and he can't look away or he'll miss them. Maybe he should get Travis to examine him; living as a wild fugitive on the run has messed up his head.

Tom breaks the silence by asking, "Why don't you bring Ryan out here looking? He'd probably like to get away from the estate for a while."

"What?" Jon asks, confused. "Why do you care what Ryan would like?"

"I don't know, Jon. Why would I care?"

"Tom."

"Jon."

" _Tom._ "

"I wouldn't exactly call it 'stars in your eyes', but -"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Jon snaps. "What the hell is wrong with you? I wouldn't - he was a _sex slave_ , Tom, and he's fucking scared out of his mind -"

"And you're an asshole, seriously," Tom says, rolling his eyes. "I _know_ you wouldn't, but right now you're the only friend the kid has in the world. I'm just wondering why you're avoiding him."

"I'm not," Jon says with a sigh. He isn't. Not on purpose. He just - he doesn't know what to say. Sorry, man, we got you to safety, and all it took was your best friend since childhood sacrificing himself to a slow death in the silver mines because I couldn't come up with a better fucking plan to save my own careless ass, aren't you glad we rescued you?

"Sure." Tom hesitates, and then adds, "He sleeps in your bed."

He does, and three nights later Jon is getting used to falling asleep with somebody warm and quiet beside him. He doesn't think too much about what that means. "Because he's _scared_ ," Jon says. "And that makes it kind of unlikely that I'm avoiding him, doesn't it?"

Tom gives him a sideways look but doesn't answer the question. "William's arriving tomorrow," he says instead. "He's bringing Saporta with him."

"What, he's - _what_?" Jon splutters, reeling for a second. "He's bring - here? Is he out of his fucking mind?"

Jon's met Gabe Saporta a grand total of twice: once when he first met Pete, who quizzed him about ideals and plans and justifications while Saporta lounged in the background, watching with a lazy, disinterested, _creepy_ stare - Jon still doesn't know why he was there, unless it's that Pete has some seriously questionable taste in friends - and once when he had to carry a message to Bill in town and turned up in the middle of a card party. He knows that Saporta is one of the good guys; that he's useful, a major player in financial, political, practical terms; that he's been in on the conspiracy for a long time - way longer than Jon, maybe even since the beginning. That doesn't mean -

"He's on our side," says Tom, watching him out of the corner of his eye.

"That doesn't mean I have to like him," says Jon.

They ride on in silence for a few moments. The horses aren't moving fast. There's no reason to, and Tom's still got his arm in a sling.

"Tell me he's not bringing his fucking entourage," says Jon at last.

Tom shrugs. "I don't know. Bill only said to get four bedrooms ready."

Four's not a lot. Both times Jon's seen Saporta, he was accompanied by a small army of personal slaves: valets and tailors, musicians and singers, dancers and tumblers, courtesans painted up within an inch of their lives. Jon's heard he never goes anywhere without them: it's part of why he'd been stunned to find out Saporta was part of this. The man likes his luxury slaves. He's famous for it and has his agents snap them up from markets and individual sellers all over the country, and anywhere people settle down to gossip about politics, sooner or later his excesses and debauchery come up for fascinated, prurient discussion. Jon's heard all the stories, the dirty whispers, the chuckles. He'd even managed to work up the courage to ask William about it. William had just looked surprised and said, "It keeps people off their guard."

Four's not a lot, so maybe this time is going to be different. But if Saporta turns up _here_ with a collared, painted doll of a bedslave in tow, if he forces Ryan to look at that again, to see it again so soon, Jon may just strangle him with his bare hands, and never mind that they're on the same side.

"Why would he even come here?" he says, hearing his own voice rise in anger. That won't do, he's got to be calm, and his next sentence comes out kind of flat with suppressed fury. "He's not involved in this bit of the operation, we don't even - we don't fucking need him."

Tom shrugs. "Don't ask me. I just, you know. Thought you should know. So you can warn him." He doesn't bother to say which _him_ he means. Jon nods and looks away and tries to think about what he's going to say to Ryan - if there's anything he can say that Ryan will hear: _Don't freak out_ and _I'm sorry_ and _That's not you, that's never going to be you again._

"I guess we should go back," he says. They're nearly at the foot of the mountains, and though he's been scanning the road ahead of them and the land around as closely as he knows how, there's no sign of Brendon or Spencer. ( _Of course there's no fucking sign_ , says something in the back of his mind. _They're both dead or worse, dead because_ you _couldn't -_ ) He's got to get back to Ryan, who's drifting around the estate like a ghost: Ryan who somehow always manages to be nearby when Jon gets back from these morning rides, who never looks hopeful and so never looks disappointed.

Jon's gone over the chances in his head a thousand times and more, but he knows he's going to be out here again tomorrow morning. The alternative is telling Ryan there's no point, and Jon doesn't know what's worse: knowing that it's true, or knowing that Ryan would only nod and turn away.

He doesn't say anything that evening, even though at dinnertime everyone is talking about Beckett and Saporta arriving tomorrow. But in the morning, before he heads down to the stable, Jon stops and doesn't let himself reconsider before asking, "Do you want to ride out with me today?"

Ryan looks understandably surprised. "Why?"

"I just thought you might..." Jon shrugs and gestures vaguely. "Get outside for a while."

"Okay," Ryan says slowly.

But when they're in the stable saddling the horses, Ryan is more animated than he has been in days, whispering softly as he slips the bridle over the mare's head and smiling when she bumps her head into his shoulder. Eagerness in Ryan doesn't look the same as it does in other people, but Jon can tell he's pleased to be outside, doing something besides filling empty hours at the estate, and he feels guilty for not inviting him along sooner. He talks to Ryan as they ride, gossip and stories about the people he knows and the trouble they've gotten into, nothing very important. Ryan doesn't exactly seem interested, but he doesn't seem _uninterested_ either.

He's in the middle of a story about the time Matt and Eric accidentally stole twenty-five sheep from a particularly surly landowner in addition to the slaves they were liberating when Ryan interrupts him.

"Is it because you think I'll do something stupid?" he asks.

Jon breaks off mid-word and looks at him, startled. "Is what because... what?"

"You didn't ask me to ride with you before," Ryan points out. "Why today? Is it because the others are arriving?"

Jon isn't about to start lying to him now. "Well, yes," he says, "but -"

"I understand," Ryan says evenly. "I'll stay out of their way, if that's what you want."

"That's not what I mean," Jon says. He sighs and rubs a hand over his face. He likes Ryan's moments of haughtiness and razor-sharp anger a hell of a lot more than the displays of apologetic meekness, but he's pretty sure if he tells Ryan to stop trying to pretend - he's not that good at it anyway, it's amazing he survived so long as a slave - it'll only get worse. "Ryan, that's not what I mean. I'm not worried about what you'll do. I'm worried about what they'll do. What they'll say. Or... I don't know." Ryan doesn't say anything, so he explains, "William's a good friend. He's a little careless with - a little careless sometimes, but he's not a bad person. But Saporta... Well. Let's just say he's on our side, but sometimes it can be a little hard to remember that."

Ryan looks more confused than enlightened, but he says, "I see."

Jon's pretty sure he doesn't actually see, but he also doesn't know how to explain that he doesn't want Ryan to be at the house alone when the strangers arrive. At least, to explain it in a way that won't make things worse. Jon's not sure Ryan's in any shape yet to appreciate the difference between protectiveness and possessiveness.

"There's probably nothing to worry about," Jon says.

"Yet here we are, riding," Ryan says wryly.

"Yet here we are." Jon looks up at the sky, dark gray and windy and threatening to rain. "But wouldn't you be sorry to miss a ride out on a beautiful spring day like this?"

Ryan looks away quickly, but Jon sees the tiny smile and feels kind of ridiculously proud.

It starts raining lightly when they turn back, just before noon. Ryan hasn't said a word about Spencer and Brendon all morning; he hasn't even acknowledged that he knows why they're riding along an otherwise empty and uninteresting stretch of road.

But when they turn around, he looks over his shoulder with undisguised longing and says, so quietly Jon can barely hear it over the raindrops pattering on the ground, "Do you think there's any chance?"

Jon thinks about telling Ryan of the time Nick was arrested and they all thought he was dead, until one morning he stumbled into a safehouse a month later and fifty miles from where he'd been captured. But he only says, "I don't know."

"Why did he go back? He was almost free."

It takes Jon a second to realize Ryan is talking about Brendon, not Spencer, and he's a little surprised. He knows from Brendon that they didn't know each other well at all, and from their days hiding in the forest he got the impression that Ryan barely tolerated Brendon.

"I guess he thought he had to," he says. He knows it's not really an answer.

Ryan's face closes up instantly. "He was wrong," he says flatly, and he urges his horse forward, the conversation over.

[Chapter Six](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/2274.html)


	7. But Not the Song (6/17)

_  
**But Not the Song (6/17)**   
_   
[Story Index and Warnings](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/446.html)

[Chapter Five](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/1818.html)

  
_  
**xiii.**   
_

Ryan and Jon don't speak again until they're riding up to the house and see the gaudy carriages and hear the shouts of laughter and greeting.

"Your friends are here," says Ryan. There's no emotion in his voice at all.

"Great," Jon mutters. "This ought to be fun."

He thinks about riding around to the stables and avoiding the meeting altogether, but before he can nudge his horse's head in that direction there's a shout from the gaggle of people by the carriages, and someone starts waving wildly. It's William. "Jon!" he yells. "What kind of an old friend are you? Get your fugitive ass over here!"

Jon shakes his head ruefully and kicks his horse into a trot. Ryan follows silently. William's a strange guy for a lord's son and heir; he doesn't have so much as a trace of the snobbishness you'd expect from a man who looks and dresses and talks like he does. It took Jon a while to realize that William just likes who he likes and the rest of the world can go to hell. It's a useful quality for a conspirator. "Hey, Bill," he says as he draws level with the carriages and jumps down from his horse. "Good to see you again."

William claps him on the back in greeting. "Good to see you not arrested, man," he says. "This your new friend?"

"Yeah, this is Ryan," says Jon. "Ryan, this -"

But Ryan hasn't moved. He's still perched on his horse, and he's staring straight over the top of their heads to where Saporta is - and _fuck_ him anyway - offering his arm to a pair of seriously beautiful women as they climb out of his carriage, one after the other. One has dark curls piled on top of her head; the other has white-blonde hair falling halfway down her back. Both of them are wearing gowns that cling and drape a little too closely, too suggestively. Jon guesses it's an expensive effect, that it's supposed to be pleasing, but he just feels sick. They're wearing matching half-veils that hide their mouths and noses, and above that paint swirls so thick around their eyes it's practically a mask - and in case anyone looking at them still hasn't got the point, Saporta's got them in fucking _collars_ : a narrow gold band on the dark-haired one, and a thick black leather strap curled around the throat of the blonde.

Ryan's not reacting at all, just watching them, his face blank and eyes empty. Jon feels helpless. He wants to go to him, touch him, tell him not to look, but he's pretty sure Ryan will just move out of reach and turn that same blank look on him if he tries. William glances between the two of them curiously, and then looks back at Saporta, who's now leading the women inside. Jon can see the moment when he gets it - Bill's always a little smarter than you expect him to be - and he winces and murmurs, "Sorry," for Jon's ears alone, and "Couldn't be helped," which, what?

Ryan tips his head back for a moment when Saporta and his slaves are gone, turns his face into the light drizzle still falling from the grey morning sky. When he finally looks at Jon he's got no expression at all. "Is it all right if I go look around the estate?" he asks.

"I - fuck, Ryan, of course," says Jon. "You're not - you're not a prisoner here. You can go wherever you like, do whatever you - take the horse, okay? Take the horse if you're going far." He remembers after he's said it that the actual owner of the estate is standing right next to him, but William just nods. "Do you want me to come with you?" Jon asks.

"No thanks," says Ryan, and Jon can't get anything from him, can't deduce anything from the look on his face or the tone of his voice. Even his posture is perfect, poker-straight, his hands loose on his mare's reins. "I'll see you later."

"Fuck," says William after he's gone. "I didn't know."

"Why the _fuck_ did you bring Saporta here anyway?" says Jon, tired and furious.

William looks away, pulling a face. "Not here," he says. "Come on in, we - I suppose it's a good thing the kid's gone, actually. We need to have a meeting."

"A meeting, sure," says Jon. "Are the sex slaves invited?"

William glares at him. "Get in the house and find out," he suggests. "Oh - leave the fucking horse, someone'll see to her later."

Jon ignores him and takes his mare round to the stables. He needs the time to cool off, anyway.

By the time he joins the others, everyone else is already clustered around the table in the dining room. William's got his tongue caught between his teeth and he's sticking pins into a map of the province. "Here," he's saying, "and here, and here, and we _think_ there's another lot here - Jon, come on in. We're counting soldiers."

"Why are there so fucking many?" says Butcher.

"If we knew..." says William, and shrugs, sticking one last pin into the map. "Anyway. That's the ones we know about."

"That's enough to shut down everything we bring through here," says Tom.

"Yeah," agrees William, "especially now that you and Jon have lost your cover." Glancing pointedly at Travis, he adds, "Gabe's got a plan, though."

Travis nods seriously like that means something. Jon pulls out a chair from under the dining table and sits on it backwards. "I still don't understand why you brought him here," he says.

"And what happened to the snake-man? Weren't you bringing him?" says Sisky.

"So I thought our main problem was the soldiers overrunning the land around our principal smuggling routes," comes a voice from the door, low and amused. "But now I see that we have _two_ main problems, and one of them is that your picked elite cell of subversives, criminals and all-around desperadoes, Bill, isn't nearly as smart as you led me to believe."

Saporta saunters into the room with a big shit-eating grin on his face, and he's got the dark-haired girl on his arm, the blonde walking two steps behind him. "Time to call this meeting of the Cobra to order," he says.

There's a moment of silence. William rolls his eyes and Travis is grinning, fond and amused, but all the rest of the guys are just blinking in irritated confusion, and Jon opens his mouth to say, _Who the hell are you, anyway?_ But before he can say it his eyes fall on Saporta's hand on the dark slavegirl's arm, and the lunging cobra carved on his heavy signet ring.

 _Snake-man._

Holy shit. Jon had no idea.

"Before we go any further, can I introduce a couple of valued associates?" says Saporta. "My personal bodyguard, Miss Maja Ivarsson." The blonde takes up a post by the door. "One of our founding members."

"Been a while since we had all four of us in the same room," says Travis. Jon sees his own gobsmacked expression reflected on the faces of the other guys.

"It ought to be five, if you count Pete," says Bill.

The blonde - Maja - laughs, low and rich, her throat moving under the dark leather of her collar. She says, "Who counts Pete?" She has a slight foreign accent, nothing Jon recognizes.

"No one," says Saporta with a wink, and continues smoothly, "and, of course, our old friend, the lovely Lady Victoria Asher." The dark-haired slave girl - who isn't a slave at all, fuck - is unpinning her half-veil and regarding the whole roomful of them with a coolly raised eyebrow.

"Let's be honest," she says. "That's the _former_ Lady Asher. You boys can call me Vicky-T."

Jon feels his jaw drop, and everyone starts talking at once, all of them louder than the others. For a long moment his mind spins as he tries to take in all of it at once. Something is nagging for his attention, and it takes several long seconds before it clicks: the woods, the cave, a conversation with - "You owned Brendon," he says, and the words fall into a gap in the chatter, echo loudly in the room.

Vicky-T turns to stare at him so fast her glittering, dangling earrings clatter together. Her eyes are wide and she's leaning forward and reaching towards him. "You - you've seen Brendon? He's still - he's - where is he? Is he here? Is he alive? Is he safe? When did you see him, how did he -" She falls silent as she sees Jon's expression. "Is he safe?" she repeats, her eyes fierce, her tone something like begging.

Jon pauses for a long moment, and then slowly shakes his head.

Her breath catches. "What happened to him?"

"What the hell do you think happened to him?" Jon snaps. "He spent the last half a year being bought and sold by caravan masters."

Vicky-T's expression hasn't changed. "Is he safe?"

"No," Jon says tiredly. "I have no fucking idea where he is."

"As touching as this is," Saporta interrupts, pulling out a chair and sitting down across the table, "we have more important things to discuss. Such as: what stupid, careless thing did you do to draw so much attention to us?"

Jon's been wondering the same thing for days, and he hasn't come up with a single answer. He shakes his head.

"We weren't the ones getting careless," says Tom. He doesn't say it loudly, but it's loud enough to quiet the room and draw everybody's eyes to him. He shifts uncomfortably but goes on stubbornly, "Come on, I'm not the only one thinking it. Jon and I weren't careless. Hell, nothing we do even makes people _notice_ us."

"They've noticed you enough to want to arrest you," William points out.

Jon sighs. "Well, they can't very well arrest Pete, can they? Not without absolute proof. His in-laws are too powerful."

"But the guys who take care of his horses," Tom says, pointing at himself and Jon, "we're nobody, just servants, probably have lots of information."

Saporta nods, looking very much like none of this is news to him. "There are always rumors," he says. "I suppose people are starting to believe the rumors now." He sounds vaguely offended, as though the tendency of the general populace to gossip about his secret society is a personal insult.

"I doubt Pete is going to agree to vanishing into the wilderness like I did," Vicky-T says. "That's not exactly his style."

"We'll deal with him," Saporta says. He sits forward and rests his elbows on the table, looking around the room thoughtfully. "But no matter how it happened, we've still got an army interfering in our business. I hate it when they do that. It makes things difficult."

Travis leans backs in his chair and props his feet up on the table, crossing his long legs. "We know you've got a plan, Gabe, so just spit it out."

Saporta narrows his eyes. "Patience, Travie." Travis rolls his eyes, and Saporta laughs. "Fine, if you insist. Sorry, Bill." Saporta claps him on the shoulder. "It's not that we don't appreciate your hospitality, but right now your hearth and home are pretty much useless. It won't stay that way forever, but until then, we need another safehouse, somewhere the army isn't prowling around with guns at the ready."

William frowns. "Not that I don't agree, but I shouldn't have to remind you that using this place has nothing to do with my hospitality and everything to do with the fact that it's the only property any of us owns on this side of the border."

"There is that problem," Saporta agrees with a nod. "It's a good thing I'm so talented at making new friends."

Jon can tell by the expressions around the table he's not the only one surprised. It's not that they don't recruit new people into the Cobra organization; it's just that it happens so rarely, and usually only after most of them have met the person in question.

"Who is it?" the Butcher asks. "How do you know they're trustworthy?"

"A pair of brothers," Saporta says. "They've inherited an estate from their grandmother a few days' ride west of here. Too much money, too little to do with it, you know the type. The older one is very idealistic, fancies himself some kind of romantic poet, practically choked on his tongue when I hinted there might be opportunities for a forward-thinking man such as himself to help the less fortunate."

"I remember being idealistic," William says nostalgically. "And naive. I don't suppose these brothers know anything about running a secret, illegal operation, do they?"

"Nothing whatsoever," Saporta says cheerfully. "Luckily for them, we have a couple of men here who can't show their faces around anymore and aren't good for much else besides teaching them the ropes."

Jon glances at Tom, and Tom rolls his eyes. Jon knows exactly what he's thinking, but even dealing with a couple of eager new noblemen is better than being cooped up here for weeks or longer. And even a hundred miles away they'll be in less danger from the army.

"Wonderful," Tom says dryly. "When do we leave?"

"As soon as possible," Saporta tells him. "Their name is Way, and they'll be expecting you. The two of you - "

"Three," Jon says. Saporta raises his eyebrows. Jon only shrugs. "There will be three of us going."

"Very well," Saporta says. "Three of you."

He turns the meeting business to other things, smaller details and plans, and Jon sits, only half-listening. He doesn't even know if Ryan will want to leave, but he's going to do his best to convince him.

_

 _  
**xiv.**   
_

Ryan wishes he'd been a little less obvious about running away.

He could have stayed where he was; he could have copied what Jon did and climbed down off his horse and shaken hands with Beckett; he could have smiled at them both - Ryan knows how to smile when he doesn't feel like it, though it took him a long time to learn. He should have done it. He should have let himself be taken indoors and let his eyes skate over those two girls like they weren't there at all -

Except, of course, that he couldn't have done anything of the sort. He imagines Jon is explaining him right now, making embarrassed excuses: _That's Ryan, don't worry about it, he's just fucked in the head_. He tries to picture Jon's face while he does it and settles on an image of an awkward half-smile, like the one Jon offers him first thing in the morning sometimes, when he's already up and dressed and Ryan's still blinking, half-asleep and huddled into the warm dent Jon's left in the mattress. Then he tries to imagine the next bit of the conversation - _Oh? How's that?_ says imaginary-Beckett, and imaginary-Jon says, _Well,_ and looks over his shoulder at those girls and -

The horse whinnies, complaining, and Ryan realizes he's tugging on the reins so hard that the iron bit has to be cutting into her soft mouth. He loosens his grip, slips to the ground, and pats her neck in apology. She turns her head to nuzzle at his hand.

He's being stupid, he knows that. He's sort of sure - he's almost sure - that Jon wouldn't say anything like that. But every time he closes his eyes he sees - he remembers - and one of those girls had been wearing a wide leather strap, _dog-collar, bitch, if you know what I mean,_ and Ryan swallows hard. He can almost feel the tightening around his throat.

It's still raining, not strongly, just a faint suggestion of damp and cold in the air that coalesces into actual raindrops if he turns his face into the wind. Cold water is trickling down the back of his neck where his hair's clumping together, soaked. He's standing in the middle of a scrubby green field; he thinks they passed it when they were riding along the road earlier. There's no one around for miles. He can do whatever he likes. He could take the horse and _go_ , run, down the road the way Jon didn't even glance this morning, and no one would stop him. For one wild moment he's seriously considering it. Jon's the only one who would mind, he thinks, if he didn't go back to the house. And Travis, maybe.

And Beckett would probably be annoyed if some slave his men rescued stole one of his horses.

Ryan closes his eyes and tries to think and immediately stumbles on _dog-collar, bitch_. There's a huge, horrible, empty feeling in his ribcage and suddenly he misses Spencer all over again, misses him so desperately, so much it's like a punch to the gut and all the breath goes out of him. He wants Spencer _here_ , so he can just - hold onto him for a while, but he's not. He's not, he's gone, he's gone _forever_. Ryan's lost him, and he knows damn well there's no chance, he _knows_ that Jon's rides every morning are just pity. He's dizzy with it suddenly, black spots in front of his eyes, and he's _alone_. There's no one here except him and the goddamn horse, and if his face is wet it's just the rain, just the fucking rain.

He breathes hard through his nose for a long moment, shrugs like that'll shrug the weather off, and gets back on the horse. She snorts air through her nose in a faintly exasperated way, as if to let him know that she has no patience for stupid boys who stand around in fields in the rain freaking out.

It'll probably be faster to take the road back to the house. Or he could ride the other way, towards the border, but he's not sure he can bear it without Jon to talk about people he doesn't know and distract him. He glances towards the mountains just in case as he turns in the other direction -

And it takes him a moment to realize what he's seen. He's already ridden a few yards in the other direction when he yanks on the reins and - and screw the horse, anyway, he jumps down and _runs_ , because there's someone there, there's someone _there_.

He's sure even before he can get a clear look, he doesn't know how he's sure but he is, and then Spencer looks up and he looks exhausted, he looks like _hell_ , and he sees Ryan and his lips part and his eyes light up slowly and he looks _alive_.

He's carrying Brendon.

He staggers and drops to the ground before Ryan reaches them, and Ryan runs harder. He stumbles to a stop in front of them and falls to his knees, reaches out to touch Spencer's arms and shoulders and hands and face, scared that his hands will pass right through him like a ghost and not quite believing it when they don't.

How, why, he wants to ask, he wants to be _sure_ , but he can't seem to make his tongue work. " _Spencer._ "

"He's hurt," says Spencer. It's more a rasp than a voice, but he meets Ryan's eyes and says again, more clearly, "He's hurt, Ry. We have to help him."

Kneeling on the ground, Spencer is still cradling Brendon in his arms, and Brendon is - Ryan goes cold all over looking at him. Brendon is pale, so fucking pale, unconscious and completely motionless. There's a ragged, filthy bandage wrapped around one shoulder, stained completely through with blood. Ryan reaches out to touch him - he can't tell, he can't even see, Brendon is so still and there is so much blood, how can somebody so tiny bleed so much and still be -

But he is breathing. Short and shallow, as though it's so difficult his body can barely manage, but he is breathing.

"Yes," Ryan says quietly. Spencer is watching him, swaying unsteadily. Ryan puts a hand on Spencer's shoulder. He notices with detached interest that he's trembling, but what he feels is nothing but resolve. They are _not_ going to make it this fucking far to die in the road like fucking animals. "The house isn't far from here," he says, his mind racing to remember just how far they are by the road. "There's a doctor there. We'll get him to the doctor, Spencer. Both of you - I have a horse. Let me just - " Ryan jumps to his feet. "I'll be right back."

He sprints back to the horse and drags her away from the grass she's munching beside the road. She trots along willingly as he leads her back to Spencer and Brendon. "You have to help me get him up. Both of you, come on."

Spencer stands up shakily. "Take him back, I can - "

"Shut the fuck up," Ryan says. "I'm not leaving you here. Help me."

Brendon is easy to lift - much too easy, when the hell did they last eat, they're too fucking thin - and with Ryan's help Spencer climbs up behind him to hold him on the mare's back. On the ground, Ryan takes the reins, wrapping them twice around his fist.

The house seems so much farther away than Ryan remembers. It begins raining in earnest as they turn off the main road, and by the time they make it up the drive they're soaked to the skin. Ryan talks as he walks - he doesn't even know what the fuck he's saying, telling them it'll be okay, telling them they'll be okay, to fucking hang on and they'll be at the house soon, just fucking _hang on_. He nearly trips over his own feet when he looks back to reassure himself, still half-convinced he's imagining them.

When they reach the house, Ryan pulls Brendon down from the mare's back and half-carries, half-drags him up to the front door. Spencer is right behind him. Brendon makes a tiny noise, a whimper of pain, and Ryan's never been so glad to hear anything in his life.

"Travis!" Ryan is shouting before he has the door all the way open. "Travis! Where the fuck are - "

"What the hell are you shouting about, boy?"

It's the blonde woman, one of the slaves who arrived with Saporta, emerging from a doorway down the dark hallway.

"He needs help," Ryan says. "He's hurt. He needs help."

She hurries toward him at first, but understanding dawns on her face before she's gone ten steps and she turns abruptly and rushes back to the open doorway, calling for Travis.

Travis appears a moment later and strides toward them, lifts Brendon away from Ryan as easily as though he's a child. "What happened?" he asks curtly.

Ryan opens his mouth, and then turns to Spencer in question. Spencer says, "He got shot. He - shoulder. It went through."

"When?"

"Three days. Four. I don't - " Spencer looks lost, and he's shaking so badly Ryan can feel it everywhere they're touching. "I don't know. A few days."

Travis is already halfway down the hall again, carrying Brendon toward the rooms he uses at the back of the house.

And suddenly the hallway is filled with people, everybody talking at once in impossibly loud voices, asking questions and surrounding him and Spencer. He hears a woman cry out, " _Brendon?_ " but that doesn't make any sense, they don't know him, and Ryan ignores all of them. He turns and wraps his arms around Spencer, pulls him close as tightly as he can and buries his face in Spencer's neck. They're both freezing, soaking wet and shivering uncontrollably, and Spencer slumps against him like he can barely stand on his own.

"You're alive," says Ryan.

"Yeah," Spencer says quietly. "Mostly."

Ryan pulls back, puts his hands on either side of Spencer's face. He's gaunt and unshaven and an awful gray color; Ryan can hardly believe he's still standing at all, much less walking, talking, _breathing_. He looks absolutely terrible, and he's the most beautiful thing Ryan has ever seen.

"You're hurt too," Ryan says. He rubs his thumb along the line of Spencer's jaw. "Come on, you're freezing, we have to - "

"Both of you are freezing."

Ryan starts; the hall is still crowded with people, too many sets of eyes on him. Jon is standing beside him. He puts his hand on Ryan's elbow. "Both of you, now, back here and out of those wet clothes. It's really fucking good to see you alive, Spencer."

Spencer stares at him for a second, then says, "Hi."

"Come on," Jon says, "before you fall over."

They pass the open door to the room where Travis is taking care of Brendon, and Spencer tries to crane his neck to look. "Travis will take care of him," Ryan says, tugging Spencer along and into the next room. He doesn't think Spencer can walk without help now, or do much of anything else, so he maneuvers Spencer onto the bed and starts to peel off his blood- and mud-stained shirt. "And you too. He's a good doctor."

"I'm fine," Spencer says. Standing in the doorway, Jon snorts with disbelief. "I didn't get shot," Spencer insists. He tries to help Ryan but his hands are clumsy and slow. "There were dogs, and soldiers, and we were running - climbing, he had to help me - they were chasing us - "

"Shh, it's okay," Ryan says soothingly. "You're safe here. Brendon is safe. Right now, just - " He looks around and Jon is right there, putting a thick, warm blanket into his hands. Ryan accepts it gratefully and wraps it around Spencer's shoulders, and he squeezes his eyes shut when Spencer leans into him.

"He wouldn't wake up," Spencer says, his voice muffled against Ryan's shoulder. "He saved my life, out of the fortress, but I couldn't stop the bleeding, I couldn't - "

"It's okay," Ryan says again. "You can tell me later."

"I know I want to hear that."

Ryan looks up. Standing behind Jon in the doorway is that man - the tall one, Saporta, that's the name Jon gave him, and the other one, Beckett, leaning in curiously behind him. Jon looks up at him, an expression on his face that Ryan can't read, and he shrugs and looks back at Ryan. "Me too," he says. "After he's rested."

"I bet it's a hell of a story," Beckett says.

Saporta looks thoughtful. "Escaped from the army twice, outran dogs and soldiers, carried a wounded friend over the mountains - what I really want to know, Bill, is why the fuck are we recruiting useless noblemen instead of kids like this?"

"You can go worry about that somewhere else," Jon says firmly. "Let Spencer rest before you pester him." To Ryan, he says, "I'll get some food and tea."

And he's gone too. There are still voices down the hallway, excited and too loud, but Ryan exhales with relief. "You can lie down," he says, but he doesn't loosen his arms around Spencer. He doesn't really want to let Spencer go ever again.

"Okay," says Spencer, and he doesn't move.

"You're alive."

"So are you."

Ryan turns slightly and kisses the top of Spencer's head. "You are such a fucking idiot."

"Ryan."

"If you ever do something like that again -"

"It worked, didn't it?"

Ryan hugs him tighter. "Shut up. Just shut the fuck up."

"Okay," says Spencer quietly.

He turns his face into the side of Ryan's neck. Ryan drops his head and says nothing, just rests his cheek on Spencer's dirty hair and listens. Eventually Spencer's breathing evens out and he's halfway to asleep. Ryan tugs at him until he's lying on the bed and settles the blanket over him. He maybe spends a little longer fussing over it than is strictly necessary. He doesn't know what else to do. Spencer barely stirs, but that's not surprising. He just walked over the mountains. And he did it carrying Brendon.

Oh god, Ryan really doesn't want to think about Brendon.

"Hey," says Jon from the doorway.

"Hi," says Ryan.

Jon's holding a tray with a couple of plates on it, along with some mismatched mugs and a cracked teapot, and he takes a few steps into the room and sets it down on the table. "I brought -" he says unnecessarily.

Ryan shifts a little on the bed and says, "I don't want to wake him up."

"Okay," says Jon. He scrubs his hand awkwardly through his hair. "Okay. We'll get Travis in here later to take a look at him. Is he all right? There's nothing -"

"Nothing that needs Travis right now," says Ryan. "There's - he'll be all right, if. Later."

Jon's mouth forms an unhappy shape for a moment and then it's gone again. He's probably thinking about why Travis can't come and look at Spencer right now. _There was so much blood_ , thinks Ryan, the words as clear and flat in his head as if they're coming from someone else. _Blood everywhere._

"You should eat something, at least," Jon says. "You haven't since breakfast."

Ryan's hand move of its own accord to find the reassuring shape of Spencer's shoulder, rest on it through the blanket. "I'm not hungry."

Spencer mumbles something into the mattress and Ryan instantly looks down, all his attention diverted. "Spence?" he says.

Spencer cracks his eyes open and gives him an exhausted approximation of his usual glare. "Fucking _eat_ , Ry," he says, voice barely above a whisper. "M'fine."

Ryan squeezes his shoulder hard because he can't make his voice work, but he stands up. He's conscious of Jon watching him as he walks over to the tray of food, pours himself a mug of tea. But when he looks Jon's gaze has shifted and he's slouched against the wall examining his own bare feet like his life depends on it. Finally he looks up and says, "Brendon -"

Ryan freezes, and the blankets on the bed rustle as Spencer pushes himself up onto his elbow and says, "He'll be okay." It sounds like he's struggling not to make it a question.

"He'll be fine," says Ryan at once. "You'll see, Spence, he'll be fine. Go back to sleep."

Spencer shakes his head, not denying, not believing either. "I want to -" he says.

" _No -_ "

"Not yet," says Jon. "Travis is with him right now. You'd only get in the way. You can see him later." He hesitates when he sees the look on Spencer's face, and he adds, "Someone'll come and get you, all right? If - anything. Someone will come."

Spencer's expression doesn't change, and Ryan has to put down his mug of tea so he can go climb on the bed and put his arms around him. Spencer leans into him and sighs. After a moment, he says, "He saved me."

 _I'm sorry it wasn't me_ , Ryan wants to say, more than anything. _I'm sorry I didn't - sorry I couldn't - I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry I gave up_.

"Go to sleep," is all he manages, roughly. "Go to sleep, okay. You're here now. It's going to be all right."

Spencer looks at him sideways and reaches one hand up to tangle his fingers with Ryan's, and seriously, Ryan wishes Spencer weren't so good at reading his mind sometimes. But he feels comforted all the same. Spencer tugs him down on the bed beside him and doesn't say a word. He doesn't need to. Ryan twists till he's comfortable and accidentally jabs an elbow into Spencer's ribs. "Sorry," he mutters at once, but Spencer just laughs, low and tired, and says, "This is why we _eat_ , Ross." Ryan shuts his eyes tight. He thought he'd never hear Spencer laugh again. He thought - he clings tighter to Spencer's hand, even though his arm's at a fairly awkward angle now, and tries not to cry. There's no fucking _reason_ to cry now. And anyway, Spencer needs to sleep.

It's not like sleeping beside Jon. Jon is smaller and warmer and doesn't smell of mud and blood and the road and _Spencer_. Jon is tentative about getting inside Ryan's space, stays mostly on one side of the bed like he thinks Ryan's going to panic at an unexpected touch. A couple of times since they got here Ryan's started awake in the middle of the night and found Jon pressed warmly against his back, but in the morning he's always moved away again.

Spencer is already asleep again, properly asleep this time, his hand in Ryan's going loose and relaxed. By the time Ryan remembers there's someone else in the room and twists his head to look, Jon has slipped out and closed the door softly behind him.

Later, when Ryan wakes up, the glare from the sunset streams through the window and dazzles him for a few seconds. He's on his own.

He doesn't have to wonder where Spencer's gone. The room where they put Brendon is right next door.

In the hallway Travis is talking to the dark-haired woman who arrived with Saporta earlier. She looks at Ryan but doesn't say anything, and Travis nods toward Brendon's room. Ryan walks straight past them both and pushes the door open gently.

Spencer is sitting in a chair beside Brendon's bed. His hand is resting on the bed, not quite touching Brendon's, and when Ryan comes in he looks up and sits back, drawing his hand away. He's cleaned up and somebody's given him clothes.

"You could've woken me up," Ryan says.

Spencer shrugs. "I haven't been awake long."

He shifts over a little, and Ryan squeezes into the chair beside him. "What did Travis say?"

"There's nothing to do except keep the wound clean and hope he wakes up."

Ryan says, "No, I mean, about you. Are you okay?"

"Oh. Yeah," Spencer says. "I'm fine. The cuts - my back's mostly healed now. He put some stuff on it. And there was - a bullet grazed my leg, but it's okay. He bandaged it up." He sees the expression on Ryan's face and says again, "I'm fine, Ryan. Just tired."

"You should still be in bed." Ryan rests his head on Spencer's shoulder and just breathes for a minute, watching Brendon sleep. Brendon looks impossibly tiny tucked beneath the blankets, his face so pale and his shoulder wrapped in fresh white bandages. "How did he find you?"

Spencer takes a deep breath and exhales slowly.

"If you want to talk about it," Ryan says quickly. "You don't have to."

"I already told Travis," Spencer says. "And that woman - Victoria?"

"I don't know who she is," Ryan admits. "She only arrived today, and I thought..."

"She used to own Brendon."

Ryan looks at Spencer in surprise. "She did?"

"Yeah. For a long time, I guess. That's what she said."

Not a slave, then, but a slave owner, or at least she had been. And not just an owner, but Brendon's owner. Ryan glances toward the open door. He wonders what she's doing here, why she's part of this at all if she owned slaves without setting them free, what she wants with Brendon now. He doesn't know what it means, and he tries to swallow down the sudden panic. He'll ask Jon when he sees him again; he doesn't think Jon will lie to him.

Spencer says, "I don't know how he found me. I didn't - he's been hurt, and we didn't exactly have time to talk before we started running, but they took me to the fortress on the border and he found me there. I don't even know how he got inside," he adds, frowning thoughtfully. "He must've snuck in. I don't know."

"But he found you." Whatever else Brendon did, that's the important part, and if Spencer wasn't pressed warm and solid against his side Ryan still wouldn't believe it. He and Jon never talked about it, but he knows they both assumed Brendon would be captured the moment he got within fifty yards of a soldier. Playing nobleman is one thing - Ryan closes his eyes and tries not to think of the cold floor beneath his bare knees, Brendon's hand warm against his face - but breaking into a fortress is entirely different.

"I wasn't with the other slaves," says Spencer. "They put me outside. I guess they wanted - I don't know, to make an example of a runaway."

"Outside?" Ryan tries to keep the word neutral, but he knows Spencer will hear the anger in his voice. Outside means chained to a post or tied up like a dog or locked into the stocks, out in the wind and rain and cold, pelted by stones and rotten food and piss by every passing soldier, unable to escape, unable to even cower no matter what they want to do -

When Ryan's certain he can speak evenly again, he says, "And he got you out?"

"We had help."

He twists to look at Spencer. "Who?"

"The man from the house, the one we met on the road. Valdez. He was there," Spencer says. "He could have sounded the alarm, but he didn't. He didn't. I don't know why."

Ryan thinks of the way the man talked and laughed with Brendon and Spencer when he thought they were a nobleman and a wounded soldier, the jokes he cracked when he glanced back at Ryan, the questions he asked. "That doesn't make any sense."

"No," Spencer agrees.

"What happened next?"

"We ran."

There's so much behind those words, so much Ryan can hear that Spencer isn't saying, but he doesn't ask. He only takes Spencer's hand and says, "He'll wake up."

And he's surprised by how much he wants it to be true. Not just for Spencer, to take another layer of worry and exhaustion from Spencer's face now that they're safe and together again, but because - Ryan's not thinking too much about the because. He won't think about it, not after spending so many days trying to convince himself it was better that Brendon was gone, that it would only be terrible to have him around, a constant presence, a constant reminder of everything Ryan wishes nobody else could see. It's harder to pretend when he knows what Brendon must see, looking at Ryan.

But it's wrong, Ryan thinks, that somebody who talks and moves as much as Brendon should be so still. And he saved Spencer's life.

"He'll wake up," he says again.

Spencer sighs. "I'll be really mad at him if he doesn't." But he doesn't sound angry; he sounds worn down and hollow and like he needs to sleep for another day or two.

Spencer won't leave, so he and Ryan stay there for hours. Ryan stays close to him, willing to touch, willing to comfort, although every so often just _looking_ at the pale still figure on the bed becomes too much and he has to leave the room and walk up and down the corridor for twenty minutes. When he comes back each time, Spencer hasn't moved an inch. No one bothers them. On one of Ryan's corridor-pacing expeditions he bumps into Jon standing at the top of the stairs with his arms folded, glaring at someone Ryan doesn't see. He jumps when Ryan comes up behind him, and then offers him a sheepish grin. Ryan realizes that he's standing guard, making the others leave them alone, and nods at him gratefully. Jon seems to get that he doesn't want to talk and just makes a gesture in return, a salute, _I'm on your side._

Ryan offers him a small smile and goes back to Spencer and Brendon.

Only twice does someone come into the room. The first is the woman, the slave owner, opening the door and slipping in almost silently. Both of them immediately turn and glare at her. Spencer rises shakily to his feet, which makes Ryan jump up to stand beside him, so they're shoulder to shoulder between her and the bed. A complicated range of expressions flickers across her strong, pretty face: anger, hurt, pride, guilt. Ryan can only see them by watching her dark bright eyes, because she's painted again, back in her courtesan outfit.

Ryan glances coolly at the whorls of makeup around her eyes and notes how sharp and bright the colors are, how neatly the elaborate designs have been put together. It takes a steady hand to do that. He wonders if she's had a lot of practice, or if the other woman did it for her.

"We're leaving," she says. "Gabe's going back to the city."

Ryan tilts his chin up, feels his face twist in a slight sneer. "Have fun."

She makes a frustrated noise. "I want to say goodbye to him."

"Well, you can't," says Ryan. "He's sort of busy bleeding to death."

Beside him Spencer makes a noise, and Ryan feels guilty for that, but not for the way she blanches under her makeup and flinches back as though he's hit her.

"Travis said -"

"He's going to be fine," says Spencer fiercely. " _Fine_." He's not looking directly at her. His fingers are gripping Ryan's arm so tightly they might bruise. Ryan feels guiltier and keeps glaring at the woman. Why won't she _go away_?

"Please," she says, directly to Ryan. "Let me say goodbye."

"Why do _you_ care?" he snaps. "He's not yours anymore. You didn't - and then you fucking _left_ him."

"I didn't mean," she says. "You don't understand what - everything happened so fast, it was all I could do to get Alex and Ryland out of there, if it weren't for -" she stops and makes a sudden, furious motion with her hands. "And who the hell are you, anyway?" she demands. "I don't have to explain myself to you! Let me see him."

" _Go away_ ," says Ryan flatly.

"You can," says Spencer, and Ryan jerks away from him, surprised. Spencer _never_ disagrees with him in front of - and then he realizes what he's thinking and if he felt guilty before it's nothing to what's crashing down on him now. Spencer shoots him an apologetic glance and says to the woman, "You can - just for a moment. And then go."

She looks from one of them to the other and then shakes her head and brushes past them both, falling to her knees as she reaches the bed. Brendon's unconscious and white-faced, his breathing shallow and fast and loud. She reaches out for his hand and grips it with both of hers for a long moment, and then brings it to her lips and kisses it. Brendon doesn't stir. There's a sound that might be a sigh or a sob, but when she stands and turns back to them her face is still and composed, and her eyes are dry.

"Tell him I'm sorry," she says. "Tell him that. Tell him I'm so, so sorry, and that I -" She stops. "No, just tell him. And - take care of him. When he wakes up."

"We will," says Spencer. "When he wakes up."

She nods firmly, as if they've made a deal and sealed it. "There's a music room here," she says. "Second floor, east wing. The piano's out of tune because Bill is _useless_ , but someone here must know how to sort that out. You should show him, when..." She trails off, manages a faint, tight smile. "It'll make him happy."

"We will," says Spencer again. Ryan can't say anything. The woman ducks her head as she walks out of the room.

Spencer looks at Ryan with a wry grimace on his face. "I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"Because I -"

Ryan gets it just before Spencer says it and for a moment he just fucking hates himself. "Shut up," he says.

Spencer nods and sits down on the chair beside the bed again. "It's just that I know," he says, mostly to the wall opposite, "that sometimes. Slaves and masters. Sometimes it's not that simple."

"You - _no_. You were never my slave," says Ryan at once, squeezing himself into the chair beside him again and putting his hand on Spencer's face, forcing him to turn and look at him. Spencer lets him do it, but raises an eyebrow. Ryan shakes his head once, hard. "You _weren't_ ," he says. "You were my father's slave, okay. You were my friend."

"All right," says Spencer, ducking away from Ryan's hand and looking at the wall again.

"No," says Ryan, "No, _listen_. I was going to - I was going to set you free. I was waiting. I was waiting for him to die so I could set you free. I was planning it, Spencer. _Always_."

"Always, huh," says Spencer, and he's still looking at the wall but there's a small smile on his haggard face. "I..." And he stops. "Seriously?"

"I - _yes_ , Spence, _seriously_. It was going to be a big surprise. I'd been planning it since I was _eight_." Ryan puts his arm over Spencer's shoulders and squeezes, hard. "All right? So we're - not like that, nothing like that. You _know_ that. And anyway if it ever mattered, if it ever even _remotely_ mattered, it couldn't now."

Spencer says nothing, just hums and leans into him.

"It couldn't possibly matter now," Ryan repeats fiercely. "Not after -"

"Not after," Spencer agrees softly.

They're both quiet for a long moment. Eventually Spencer shifts and says, even softer, "I really hope he wakes up soon."

"Yeah," says Ryan. "Yeah."

The second interruption they get is hours later, probably after midnight - Ryan doesn't know. He's not really tired after spending most of the afternoon asleep, but Spencer's exhaustion has come back in force, and he's barely conscious beside him. Ryan tried to make him leave and go to bed earlier, but he wouldn't move, so Ryan just hopped off the chair to give him more room. Now he's sitting on the floor, leaning against the bedstead, counting the cracks on the ceiling by the moonlight coming through the window.

It's Travis who comes in, and he makes a soft sound of good-humored dismay. "Bed, both of you," he says.

Spencer wakes up enough to give him a tired glare. "M'not leaving him," he says. Ryan just nods.

Travis looks at them both, and then shakes his head. "I can make up a bed for you in here," he says to Spencer. "I want to keep an eye on you anyway. _You_ -" He points at Ryan. "Get your ass out of my infirmary, Ross. You can come back in the morning."

Ryan wants to protest, but if he does then Spencer will try to back him up, and he wants Spencer to sleep. "I'll see you tomorrow," he says instead, and gives Spencer another hug, reveling again in his warmth and solidity and general _alive_ -ness. "Sleep well."

Spencer gives him a sleep-slow smile. "And you. I'm so fucking glad you're okay."

"Yeah," says Ryan. "Just - same, all right?" Travis coughs pointedly. "I'm going, I'm going," Ryan mutters.

He goes right to Jon's room without even thinking about it; he hasn't set foot in the room they gave him since that first night. There's light flickering under the door, and when Ryan pushes it open the room is thick with heat, the air almost liquid with it, the fire in the hearth leaping high and bright. Jon's still awake, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of it with the poker laid flat across his knees, staring into the flames. His shirt lies discarded over the back of a chair, and he's close enough to the blaze that sweat is beading on the tanned skin of his shoulders.

He starts when he hears the door open, and the poker clatters to the floor. "Sorry," says Ryan, closing the door behind him. "I didn't think you'd be awake still."

Jon looks surprised to see him, but he scrambles awkwardly to his feet. He's barefoot. "I - sorry," he says. "I thought you'd be - I didn't know you were coming back here."

Ryan blinks. "I can go," he offers, though he really doesn't want to. His room won't have a fire in it, his bed won't be - well. It'll be cold.

"No, no," says Jon quickly. "No, that's - I like having you here. I just thought you'd want to stay with Spencer."

Ryan shakes his head. He could explain about Spencer not leaving Brendon and Travis throwing him out but somehow he doesn't feel like it. "Aren't you tired?" he says instead. "It's late."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm going to bed. I was just..."

"Playing with fire," Ryan finishes.

Jon flashes him a grin and says, "Yeah, well. It's bright."

"No kidding?" says Ryan. "I hear it burns shit too."

Jon's laugh is quick and surprised. Ryan feels a small, unaccustomed smile bloom on his face and ducks his head to hide it as he starts stripping off his clothes for bed. Behind him Jon makes a lot of noise about banking up the fire for the night, swearing as he drops the poker on his foot. Ryan's laughing as he climbs into bed: if it was hot in the room, under the blankets it's practically a furnace, but he doesn't mind. He's been cold a lot lately, and the fire will die down in the night.

Jon gets in beside him a moment later. "Night," he whispers, and Ryan can hear the ghost of a chuckle in his voice.

He rolls onto his other side so he can actually _see_ him, his fingers brushing against Jon's arm, and answers, "Good night."

Jon goes still at the touch, and when Ryan realizes he freezes too, just for an instant, before he snatches his hand away. He looks up, meets Jon's eyes, and Jon is just staring at him, biting his lip. His eyes are so fucking pained - so _ashamed_.

Ryan moves backwards, away from him on the bed. Of course. He forgot.

"Sorry," he says.

Jon's eyes go confused, and then wide, and he says, " _No_ ," firm and unexpectedly loud, and his hand reaches out and grabs Ryan's wrist, and then lets go just as fast. Ryan stops moving away, doesn't move back either. He has no idea what's going on. "I - _fuck_ , don't - _god_ ," Jon says, and uses one hand to push himself up till he's half-sitting. "Don't - _I'm_ sorry, okay?"

"What?" says Ryan.

Jon closes his eyes and makes an unhappy noise. When he opens them again he looks straight at Ryan. "I'm sorry," he repeats deliberately.

Ryan sits up. "I don't - Jon, what?"

Jon looks down and shakes his head, says, "I -" and then stops again. Ryan hesitates for a long second before he puts one tentative hand on Jon's shoulder. Jon tenses up at the touch and then he whispers, "Fuck it," and he's moving, turning towards Ryan and resting his free hand on Ryan's upper arm. _Oh_ , thinks Ryan, just as Jon kisses him, quick and careful and tender. His mouth is soft and his beard scratches.

He pulls away before Ryan can decide what he thinks, and he lets go of Ryan's arm. "So," he says. "I'm sorry. Can we just - sleep?"

"I - sure," says Ryan. He's still got his hand on Jon's bare shoulder. He gives it a reassuring squeeze before he lets go, and that makes Jon look a little less awkward, a little less agonized. "Of course," says Ryan, and his mouth quirks a little without him even thinking about it. Jon smiles gratefully back. "Good night," says Ryan.

"Good night," says Jon.

In the morning, Ryan wakes up alone. The room is cold again, and he lies burrowed under the blankets for a few minutes. Part of him wants to convince himself he imagined it. Jon _kissed_ him. Kissed him, and apologized, and didn't demand anything more, and went to sleep.

That's not how it works. That's _never_ how it works. Ryan doesn't have any illusions; Jon knows what he is. Was. _Was_ , he repeats firmly to himself, pulling the blankets up to his chin. _Was_.

"Not a slave anymore," he says quietly, to the empty room. He doesn't know if he'll ever get used to thinking it. And however impossible it is for him, it must be a thousand times worse for Spencer, who has never been free. And Brendon. Brendon too.

Well, Ryan thinks, he might not be good for very much, but he can figure out how to be damn good at telling them they're free, every day for the rest of his fucking life if he has to. He throws back the covers and sits up. It's not that he thinks - somebody surely would have woken him if something happened to Brendon in the night, and Spencer is probably still asleep, god knows he needs the rest. But he wants to see for himself. He wants to know he didn't dream it.

As he's dressing the door opens and Jon comes in. His expression is serious, and Ryan stops breathing at once.

"What?" he manages, frozen in place. "What happened?"

"What?" Jon repeats, confused. "Did something happen?"

Ryan stares at him. "You look - is something wrong?"

"I just talked to Travis," says Jon. "He says Brendon's doing a little better. He's still not awake, but he seems to be resting a little easier."

"Oh." Ryan forces himself to breath again and finishes buttoning his shirt. "Oh. Good. Is - "

"Spencer is still asleep," Jon tells him.

"Good. He needs to rest."

There's a short silence, and Ryan fusses with his clothes, hoping he doesn't look as awkward and lost as he feels.

"Look, there's something I want to talk to you about," Jon begins.

Ryan's hands still, and he stares at the floor. Jon's going to apologize again, and he's going to leave. He's going to say maybe Ryan should sleep in a different room now. He won't be an asshole about it, Jon's not like that, and he won't ask - he won't _demand_ \- but he's also not -

"Tom and I are supposed to be leaving here pretty soon."

Ryan looks up sharply. "What? _Leaving_?"

"Yeah." Jon shrugs. "This place isn't very safe for a safehouse right now, not with the army watching every move we make. Saporta has a new place in mind to set up somewhere else, so we can keep working, even if we can't do it here."

Ryan nods, but he's stuck on _leaving_. The other guys around the estate aren't bad, they would probably be perfectly nice if Ryan wanted to talk to them, but they watch him in a way that makes him feel like a skittish animal, and they're not Jon with his easy smiles and calming presence - and Jon's _leaving_.

Ryan swallows and tries not to sound as plaintive as he feels when he asks, "When?"

"Well, that's the problem." Jon runs his hand through his hair. "We were supposed to go today. It's a long ride, a few days, and with all the rain the roads are terrible."

"Oh."

"I was going to ask you to come with us."

"You - what?"

Jon smiles, a little sheepishly. "I thought you might - I mean, you don't have to, you can do whatever you want now, and we'll help you no matter what you decide to do. I thought you might want to come with us. But that was before Spencer and Brendon wandered out of the wilderness. Which, by the way, is going to be everybody's fireside story of choice for the next five or six years at least. Spencer has definitely won an admirer for life in Butcher, and he's not an easy guy to impress."

"Oh," says Ryan, because he can't think of a single other thing to say.

Jon goes on, "But I guess I should ask you before making all these plans. Do you want to come with us?"

"I would have," Ryan says, and he's surprised by how little he has to think about it. "But they're here now."

"Well, they can come too," Jon says. "When Brendon wakes up and is well enough to travel, which might be a while, but... I mean, this isn't - Listen, you don't have to agree to join us or anything. It's a shitty, dangerous life, and that's not how we work. We don't demand anything from you because we got you out." Jon takes a step forward, and he looks so serious, more earnest than Ryan has ever seen him. "I mean that, Ryan. That's not how we work."

He seems to be waiting for something, so Ryan nods.

"But the other safehouse, this new one, it might be a better place for the three of you to get back on your feet and figure out where to go. At the very least it'll be safer, just in case the army decides to get more aggressive around here."

Ryan nods again. It makes sense, all of it, but Ryan knows he can't make this decision for all of them. "Spencer, and Brendon, they get to decide. I won't... They get to decide."

"Of course," Jon says easily. "Tom's going to drag Sisky along with him instead for a while, get things started, and when you guys are ready to travel - then you can decide. All of you."

"Okay," Ryan says. And it's - it's _okay_ , he realizes, a sudden, giddy feeling rising up in his chest. They're talking like Brendon is going to be okay, like he's going to wake up and start annoying them all again any day now, like all of them really have escaped and the army won't look for them and slavetraders won't find them and nobody will turn them in, and they get to decide where to go next or where not to go because nobody will lock shackles on their ankles and force them to walk or make them do one thing or another and -

"Okay," he says again. Because it might be.

Jon grins. "Come on," he says, holding out his hand. "Let's get some breakfast."

[Chapter Seven](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/2483.html)


	8. But Not the Song (7/17)

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**But Not the Song (7/17)**   
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[Story Index and Warnings](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/446.html)

[Chapter Six](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/2274.html)

  
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**xv.**   
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_April._

Brendon wakes up and it's dark.

He's sort of disappointed. He's never paid much attention to any kind of religion, not since he was tiny, before he was first sold years and years and _years_ ago, but he had a vague impression that being dead was going to be more interesting than this.

He's pretty sure he's got to be dead by now. He was pretty much doomed from the moment he _sneaked into a military fort_ to rescue one unimportant slave who might not even be there anymore, or at all. And then - he picks his way cautiously through the memories - then he found Spencer, basically by luck, and they ran away (a face swims up to the surface of his thoughts: _Shane_ , and Brendon sort of wants to find him and hug him, except that if Shane saw him again he might come to his senses and sound the alarm this time, or wait, Brendon's dead, there's probably not much point sounding the alarm for a ghost) and there had been dogs, and water, and seriously cold feet and a _cliff_ , and they'd nearly done it.

 _God_ , thinks Brendon. They got so close.

He remembers getting shot. Things get sort of dizzy and painful after that.

He hopes Spencer got away.

It's about this time that he registers that his entire left side feels like it's _on fire._

"Fucking _ow_ ," he says, or tries to say, but it comes out as a faint moan, cracked in the middle, and _god_ his mouth is so dry, words might not actually be a viable possibility right now. He blinks a couple of times, and discovers that the darkness has a gradient, that it's darker when he's got his eyes shut, which suggests that he might not be that dead after all because why would ghosts need eyelids? That thought almost makes him giggle, which is, fuck, another mistake. His shoulder hurts so much, so goddamn much.

If he's not dead then he's either captured or not-captured. If he's captured, there's nothing much he can do about it. If he's not-captured, _hooray_ , and there's still nothing much he can do about it. So he might as well just lie here and whimper a bit either way.

He's kind of proud of himself for coming up with all those sensible thoughts when he hurts this much.

Wherever he is they've put him on a bed. That's a good sign, or at least a hopeful sign, because it means someone wants him to stay alive. Brendon wonders for a moment about _bad_ reasons for wanting him alive and then stops himself because there's no point getting scared right now. It doesn't matter. He's not telling anyone _anything_. Jon and, and Ryan (and maybe Spencer, he _hopes_ Spencer got away, Spencer was the whole point of dying or not-dying or whatever) are safe, and they're going to stay safe, and that's what counts.

He shifts a little and discovers that trying to do anything with his left arm is both pointless and painful. The other one's okay, though; it feels like it's made of jelly but then so does all of the rest of him, and he thinks it's just hunger. He clenches his right hand into a fist and uses it to brace himself against the soft mattress ( _soft_ is another point in favor of not-captured, and Brendon's not hoping, he's _not_ ) and tries to sit up.

A strangled noise falls out of him, a gasp that would probably be a scream if he had more breath, or his mouth were less dry. He slumps back against the pillows and makes another noise when that jogs his shoulder too. _Fuck_ , okay, fuck fuck fuck, bad idea. Moving is a bad idea. And then there's a sudden rustling in the shadowy room, and _shit_ , there's someone else here, there's someone waiting.

Brendon swallows hard and manages to wet his mouth enough to say, "I'm not telling you anything." It comes out as a small, scared whisper.

The rustling stops abruptly. Brendon squints in the dark and can just about make out the shape of someone on the floor, sitting up and looking straight at him. He's holding his breath, and after a few seconds of absolute, undisturbed silence he realizes the other person is too.

" _No_ ," the other person breathes at last, just as Brendon lets out the breath he's holding on a fast exhale, almost a sigh. Then there's more rustling noises as whoever it is pushes their blankets aside and scrambles across the floor and says, "No, don't be-"

And then he can turn his head and look and it's Spencer, Spencer's kneeling beside the bed and he looks - there isn't a word for the look on his face. Brendon makes a wordless noise that turns into a whimper of pain, and Spencer stares straight down at him, and their eyes lock, and then Spencer's widen and he murmurs, "Oh god, you're _awake._ "

"Guess so," Brendon tries to say, but his mouth is so dry.

Spencer promptly lays his index finger over Brendon's lips. "Don't _talk_ , idiot," he says, and shit, that sounds like _captured_. Brendon wants to say _why not_? but Spencer doesn't seem to be particularly worried about it. "You," he says instead, and then, "Are you okay? How do you feel?"

Brendon thinks about it. "Hurt," he says at last, voice scraping in his throat. "Hungry."

Spencer laughs a little bit, but it sounds like relief. "Hungry, _fuck_ ," he says. "You asshole, you've been asleep for _three days_."

 _Sorry_ , Brendon thinks, but he hasn't really got enough voice to say it, not when there are more important things. "Jon - Ryan?" he asks.

"Safe," says Spencer. "Safe, safe and _here_. You fucking well did it, you know." His voice cracks. "You got us through."

Brendon doesn't feel like he's done anything much. He just hurts.

"I'm gonna go get..." Spencer trails off and lifts a hand to touch the side of Brendon's face. His fingers are cool and gentle and feel really good, and Brendon closes his eyes to concentrate on that. "Hey. Don't - are you still?"

"Still here," Brendon says. He's starting to wonder if it's a good idea, but it seems important to Spencer.

"Good. God, Brendon, I was so fucking - _god._ " Spencer's hand is gone then, and Brendon tries not to whimper in disappointment. "I'm going to get Travis."

Brendon doesn't know who Travis is, but he hears Spencer's footsteps across the floor and the sound of a door opening. Just opening. Not locked. His mind is still sluggish, but he knows that's a good thing, no lock on the door.

There are more footsteps, and Brendon forces his eyes open again. There's light this time, the flickering warmth of a candle, and Spencer isn't alone.

The man with him smiles widely and says, "Hey, Brendon. We've been waiting for you to wake up."

It sounds nice when he says it, not ominous, but all Brendon can think to say in reply is, "You're really tall." The words catch in his throat, and he starts coughing, dry and painful.

"This is Travis," Spencer says, standing just to the side. "He's a doctor. He's been taking care of you."

A doctor, Brendon thinks. He's pretty sure a doctor has never taken care of him before. That's got to be another good thing. Travis sets the candle down beside the bed and lifts something else, then he's curling his big hand around Brendon's neck and holding a cup to his lips. It hurts to hold his head up even a little bit, but the water is seriously the greatest thing Brendon has ever tasted, it's got to be fucking _magical_ water it tastes so good, and he wants to cry when Travis takes the cup away.

"How are you feeling?" asks Travis. He tugs Brendon's blanket down and prods at the edge of the bandages. He's gentle, but it still makes Brendon wince.

"It hurts," Brendon says. That about sums it up, he thinks.

"Yeah, I'll bet it does. Anything else? Dizzy? Sick to your stomach?"

Brendon thinks about it for a minute while Travis pokes and prods. "Tired," he finally decides.

Travis chuckles. "All right, then, we'll let you get back to sleep." He moves away, taking the candle with him, and speaks to Spencer for a bit. Brendon doesn't try to listen to what they're saying; their voices rise and fall softly, comforting in how close and how calm they are. Then Travis says, "And you get back to sleep too, Smith," and the door closes again. Brendon listens for the sound of a lock sliding into place, but he hears none.

Spencer is beside him again. He sits on the floor by the bed and reaches out to brush Brendon's hair back from his face. "It's the middle of the night," he says. "Ryan and Jon and everybody are asleep. They'll probably yell at me for not waking them up, but you look like you're about to fall asleep again anyway."

Brendon wants to ask who the "everybody" is, but that's too many words to figure out, so he settles for, "Where?"

"A safe place," Spencer says, and Brendon's relieved he understood. "We're with Jon's people. We're safe here." He strokes his fingers along the edge of Brendon's face again, so soft it's barely a touch. Brendon wants to arch into it; he doesn't know what Spencer's doing but it feels really nice. But when he turns his head pain shoots down his neck and shoulder again, and he groans out loud. Spencer draws his hand away quickly. "You can go back to sleep," he says, "but only if you promise to wake up again."

"Promise," Brendon says, or he tries to. He's not sure the word makes it all the way out. Spencer doesn't move away. Brendon can feel him resting his head on his arms on the bed, pressed lightly against Brendon's side through the warm blankets, and more sleep sounds really good right now.

When he wakes up again, he hears the whispering first, and then he notices the sunlight. He blinks several times at the wooden ceiling above the bed. It's not a terribly interesting ceiling, but when Brendon turns his head to look around the room he bites back a gasp of pain.

The whispering stops. "Brendon?"

He doesn't have to turn his head far. In the daylight he can see that there's a chair beside the bed, and Spencer and Ryan are both sitting in it, squished close together because it's not a chair designed for two people.

"Hi," says Brendon. It sounds more like a croak.

A big, bright smile breaks across Spencer's face and wow, Brendon's never seen Spencer look anything more than grimly amused, that smile is a revelation. "You're awake again," Spencer says. He sounds kind of ridiculously happy about it.

"Should wake up more often," Brendon says. He means to add, _if it makes you so happy_ , but he runs out of breath halfway through. He stops to concentrate on breathing for a moment. It hurts, just inhaling and exhaling, and who the fuck knew that breathing used so much shoulder?

"You should," says Ryan, his tone oddly serious. "You really scared us."

Brendon's breath hitches, and that makes his shoulder twinge too, but Ryan's - Ryan's _here_. Ryan came to see him. He looks - not like Brendon remembers, not exactly. He's put on weight, his cheekbones don't protrude so sharply anymore, and there's color in his skin, a slight flush. His hair is clean and curling a little around his face, and the haunted look in his eyes is - not gone, but muted, retreated. The shirt he's wearing is a little too big for him: the cuffs come down over his wrists and the open collar shows his throat, part of his collarbone, hints at the curve of his shoulder. Brendon's memories insists that Ryan ought to be hunched into it, dragging it tight around him, but instead he leans comfortably on Spencer, easy in his own skin, not caring.

The last thing Ryan said directly to him - days ago, maybe weeks ago now? Brendon doesn't know - was _shut the fuck up_. He remembers it pretty clearly. He remembers it hurt.

Ryan's expression shifts minutely and Brendon realizes he's been looking too long, not saying enough. Spencer's smile has dimmed a little, replaced by confusion and curiosity, and he turns his head and says, "Ry?" They're sitting so close together that his mouth is right by Ryan's ear and his breath makes Ryan's hair move. Brendon can't look away.

Ryan ducks his head and rubs at one of his wrists and says, "I'm gonna go get Jon."

"Yeah, okay," says Spencer, sounding a little bit surprised. "Good idea." He watches Ryan as he leaves, frowning a little. Then he shakes his head, and he's smiling again as he looks back at Brendon - not the bright, beaming smile from before, but something smaller, maybe shyer. "Ryan's a little bit crazy sometimes. More than sometimes," he says. "He was worried about you, though. He was here all the time."

Brendon can see the pallet on the floor where Spencer's been sleeping. He thinks if Ryan's been here all the time, it's because _Spencer_ was. He - to be honest, he can't think why Ryan would want anything to do with him.

That thought stabs like the pain in his shoulder stabs when he breathes, and Spencer must see it on his face, because he says, "Brendon?" worried suddenly, the smile vanishing.

That's no good. Spencer ought to be smiling. "I'm okay, just. Can I - water?" Brendon says.

"I - right, of course," says Spencer, jumping to his feet. "Travis said - where did I - _right_." He vanishes from Brendon's line of sight, and Brendon remembers the pain last time he tried to move around too much so he lies still, waiting for him to come back. It's only a few moments before Spencer reappears with a cup in one hand, and he sits down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under him. He puts his hand on the back of Brendon's neck to hold him steady as he raises the cup to Brendon's lips. Brendon drinks gratefully, relishing the cool clean taste of it, and licks his lips when Spencer takes the cup away. Spencer's fingers linger on his neck for a few seconds, sure and gentle, and brush through the hair behind Brendon's ear when he eases Brendon's head back onto the pillow.

Brendon's shoulder is throbbing worse than ever, but somehow he doesn't really mind that much. "Thanks," he says, smiling up at him.

"No problem," Spencer replies, and his smile is back too, so that's okay. He doesn't move back to the chair, but stays sitting on the mattress. After a moment Brendon manages to get his good hand to move over a bit, and Spencer gets the idea quickly, catches it in one of his, gives it a squeeze. "You still hungry?" he asks.

Brendon's _starving_. He doesn't even have to say it, Spencer just sees his expression and laughs. "I'll ask Travis," he promises. "We've got to be careful, you understand. You scared the shit out of us all."

"Sorry," says Brendon.

"Fuck, don't be sorry." Spencer grips his hand tighter. "Be anything but _sorry_ , okay? You -" He shrugs. "If it weren't for you - shit. I don't know. Just, you don't ever need to be sorry for anything, all right?"

"All right," Brendon echoes softly. He guesses Spencer doesn't know some things. "So. Um. Did I miss anything?"

"Not much. The - I don't know, the chief conspirators or whatever were here a few days ago," says Spencer. "Then they went away again." He pauses for a long moment, his face going sort of serious and doubtful at the same time.

"What?"

"I - there was, um. Someone with them. A woman." Spencer stops and looks first at the ceiling, and then at his feet, and then back at Brendon like it takes an effort to do. "She said her name was - Vicky-T?"

Brendon freezes and then whimpers when even that little movement pulls at his shoulder. Concerned, Spencer drops his free hand onto Brendon's side and rests it there soothingly. Finally Brendon manages to get his mouth to work again and he whispers, "Lady Asher. Victoria."

"Yeah," says Spencer. "Yeah, that was her name."

"Did she - did she say anything? About me?"

"She - yes. She said to tell you she was sorry."

Brendon lets his eyes fall closed and concentrates on breathing out, slowly, as slowly as he can, and feeling the burning in his shoulder shift and stretch as his ribcage moves.

"I guess she really did own you, then," says Spencer after a moment.

"Yeah," says Brendon. His voice has gone small and lost, and nothing he does will make it behave. "Yeah, she did."

He thought she was dead. It was the only explanation that made sense. She was never cruel or careless, but one day she was _gone_ , and Alex and Ryland were gone too. Lawyers came, and bailiffs, people who made lists and drew up deeds, and then the auctioneer came, and Brendon kept waiting, wondering, put his head down as he stood on the block and thought _no_ when the hammer came down and the man bellowed, "Sold!"

He remembers thinking that it had to be a mistake, that Lady Victoria would come to the caravan in her finest carriage and sort things out and take him home again. But days passed, then weeks and months, the cold winter roads carrying them farther from the estate, and eventually Brendon stopped watching for her carriage. It wasn't even a year ago, but it feels like another life.

"She disappeared," he says, because Spencer is watching him with worried eyes. "I thought she was dead."

Spencer squeezes his shoulder again. "I think she's been in hiding."

"Oh."

Brendon opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling. Lady Victoria. _Vicky-T_ , and Ryland used to call her that sometimes, and Alex, and - and Lord Wentz said it too, in the carriage the night Brendon was rescued. _Vicky-T. Lady Victoria._ And she'd been here and gone again while he was asleep. She hadn't stayed. She hadn't waited. She left him again.

It comes crashing down on him suddenly, and he feels stupid because he should have put it together ages ago, maybe the moment he looked up expecting to see some lord's servant checking his teeth and found Patrick staring back at him instead. He should have known it sooner, he should have - _she was part of this_. She was here with the Cobra's leaders. She knew what this was about, she was right in the thick of it - and suddenly some of the things that people at the manor said to each other over his head make a lot more sense. So does the way Brendon was never allowed to wander around certain parts of the estate, and the way Ryland kept half his records in code. And the strangers who sometimes turned up ragged and bloody and claimed to be friends of Alex's, who always said they'd been attacked by wild animals or bandits on the road even though the roads around the Asher place were safe for miles.

It was always happening, right under his nose - she was always - she never even _told_ him. She'd freed other slaves but not him. She left him in the dark, he'd been afraid even to use her _name_ , and all the time -

There's a hot feeling building behind Brendon's eyes. She left him in the dark. She _left_ him.

And then something else tugs at his memory. He'd been beaten, the day she vanished. He'd been beaten and interrogated and beaten again, and he remembers sobbing out -

 _Don't bother yourself about anything Pete Wentz's stable boy comes and tells me._

He'd given them Jon and Tom. He hadn't even known.

"Brendon?" Spencer says.

Brendon tries to shake his head, and nearly screams at the pain the too-fast movement causes. Thankfully it means Spencer's distracted with making sure he's all right and doesn't ask any questions. When Brendon's breathing steadily again, Spencer bites his lip and then takes a breath and says, "She also said to tell you, there's a piano here?" He looks uncertain, like he's not sure why he's passing on this message. "Do you play?"

"There is? Yeah, yeah, I - " Brendon starts to sit up but remembers just in time not to. People are always telling him to sit still, he thinks, to stop moving, stop fidgeting, and all it took was the constant, fiery pain of a bullet through his shoulder to make it happen. It would be funny if it didn't hurt so much. "I do," he says. "I did. But now, well. One hand isn't really much use."

"You can play one-handed songs," says Spencer solemnly. Brendon can't even tell if he's joking.

Before Brendon can answer, Jon comes into the room - he's practically _skipping_ \- and says, "It's about fucking time!" He's smiling wide and his eyes are dancing. Brendon thinks _Pete Wentz's stable boy_ again and almost blurts out an apology there and then - he hadn't known, she hadn't told him, he didn't _know_. But he pushes it away when Jon steps over to the bed and leans down to grip Brendon's good shoulder for a moment, looking so relieved and so, so happy. It's been - it feels like a really long time since Brendon had friends.

He can't do much more than pull his good hand free of Spencer's grip and pat Jon's arm, but he starts smiling too. "We were really worried about you," Jon says. He nudges Spencer's shoulder. "Move over, let me sit. Seriously, Brendon, really fucking worried. Don't do that again, okay?"

Brendon starts to apologize again, glances at Spencer and says, "'Kay. I'll try."

"You better. Hey, we brought you food. Well, sort of." Jon looks over his shoulder, and Brendon sees Ryan hovering in the doorway with a wooden tray in his hands. "Travis is busy stitching up Mike right now - dumbass fell off his horse right into a tree - but he says you're allowed to have broth."

Brendon wrinkles his nose. "I'm hungrier than broth."

Jon laughs. "Sure you are, tough guy. Let's try this first and see how you handle it. Travis will kick my ass if I don't follow his orders, and he's a lot bigger than me. You think you can sit up a little?"

"Um." Brendon hesitates. "Maybe?"

"I'll help you," says Jon.

It hurts like hell, Jon's strong hands helping him move up a little, rearranging the pillows, easing Brendon down again. But when the sharp pain of movement passes and Brendon is slumped awkwardly against Jon's side, it doesn't really hurt more than lying on his back. Not much. And he is very hungry.

Ryan brings the tray over and hands it to Jon without saying anything. He sits in the chair again, perched on the edge with his hands folded carefully in his lap, and after a second Spencer goes to join him. Brendon tries not to feel disappointed; it was nice to have Spencer sitting close by his side.

The broth smells really good. Brendon fumbles with the spoon; his right arm isn't even injured, but it still doesn't want to work. He takes a few swallows, and each one makes him hungrier than the last.

"Wait," he says. He lowers his arm, resting for a second. "How did we get here?"

"You came over the mountains," says Jon. Brendon can feel his voice as much as he hears it.

"No, I mean..." Brendon looks at Spencer. "I remember the dogs, and the - the gunshots. But everything after that is kind of fuzzy." Splashing through a river, every part of him freezing cold and painfully on fire at the same time, and Spencer talking to him - not talking but yelling, pleading, he remembers the tone of Spencer's voice more than the words, and feeling that it was really important to do what Spencer was telling him.

Spencer looks down at his hands and shrugs. "That's the exciting part. The rest of it isn't important."

Jon reaches out with his foot and prods Spencer's knee. "Stop being modest. He carried you," he says to Brendon. "He dragged your ass all the way across the mountains."

"You - you _did_?"

Spencer shrugs again. "I wasn't going to leave you."

Brendon's eyes feel suddenly hot. He blinks rapidly and looks down at the bowl. "Thanks," he says quietly.

Spencer makes a soft noise almost like a laugh, and Brendon glances up again. "I kind of owed you," Spencer says, smiling a little bit. "But I think we're about even now."

"Yeah." Brendon remembers just in time not to nod. "Even."

Jon nudges Brendon. "You still hungry?"

The broth is getting cold, but Brendon's stomach is twisting uncomfortably and he's suddenly more tired than anything else. He sets the spoon down. "Not really. I can - " He tries to move so he's not half-lying on Jon, but he gives up with a groan of pain. "Sorry," he says. "You have to move me again."

"I'm good right here," Jon tells him.

Brendon closes his eyes. "I'm squishing you."

Jon pokes his side. "You don't weigh enough to squish anybody, my friend." Brendon can hear the smile in his voice.

Somebody lifts the tray from his lap, and Brendon opens his eyes a bit to see Ryan leaving the room again. He hasn't said a word to any of them, and when he's gone Jon says, "Is Ryan okay?"

Spencer answers, "Ryan's just... Ryan." He's trying to sound unconcerned, but Brendon can hear the undertone of worry.

He wants to tell them he's sorry - that Ryan doesn't have to keep coming in here if he doesn't want to, he doesn't have to pretend - but then he'll have to explain why and that's - he won't do that. That's Ryan's to tell, not his, and Brendon's taken too much from him already.

_

 _  
**xvi.**   
_

On the first truly sunny day since they've arrived, Travis comes into the infirmary, puts a hand on Spencer's shoulder, and says, "If you don't get your ass outside in the fresh air, Smith, I'm going to..."

Spencer waits expectantly. "Don't keep me in suspense."

Travis laughs. "I can't think of anything suitably diabolical."

Spencer very much doubts that, but he appreciates that Travis doesn't joke about punishment the way the other guys do, at least not around him.

"Seriously, man," says Travis, "you need to get out of here for a while. I'm about to give Brendon a really embarrassing examination, and he doesn't want you to see that."

"I really don't," Brendon says. "Please go outside and get some sunshine for me." Brendon's sitting up in bed now, and he's eating more and staying awake for hours at a time. But he still can barely move without wincing in pain, and Travis still frowns with worry when he changes the bandages.

Spencer sighs; he knows when he's outnumbered. "Fine," he says, standing up. "But if it starts raining, I'm blaming both of you."

He wanders out of the room and along the hall toward the back of the house, but he stops halfway and turns around. He doesn't have to go to the back of the house here. He can use the front door, the front stairs, sit in the front rooms on the worn but fine furniture like everybody else. They all eat in the kitchen, but if they ate in the dining room he could eat with them.

With the exception of Travis telling him to sleep and eat and stay warm and go outside and whatever else his mysterious doctor-mind deems necessary, nobody has told Spencer to do anything. They don't seem to expect him to do anything. The one time he'd offered to help with something, Jon gave him an amused and exasperated look and said, "You're supposed to be resting, Spence. Just rest, okay?"

And without even thinking about it, Spencer had replied, "I don't know how."

The look on Jon's face had changed from amusement to sympathy so quickly Spencer had turned away without waiting for an answer.

Spencer uses the front door because he can, but once he's outside he doesn't have any better idea what to do with himself. Travis was right: it is sunny and quite warm. Tiny green leaves are unfurling in the trees, and the ground is starting to dry a bit. Spencer thinks about going to look for Ryan, but he only gets so far as the bottom step before he changes his mind. Ryan is probably with Jon, and they're probably off riding or something, and that's another conversation Spencer really wishes he could have avoided. He'd asked, "You sleep in Jon's room?" because he was apparently the last to know - even _Brendon_ knew, and Brendon doesn't leave his bed without help - and Ryan had said, "Yes." Nothing else, no explanation.

Spencer sits down on the stone step and rests his elbows on his knees. He'd always thought the view from the front door of a great estate house would be a lot more interesting, given all the fuss everybody makes about who's allowed to see it and who will get kicked in the head for even trying.

He doesn't hear anybody approach, but suddenly there's a shadow falling over him and somebody saying, "You look like you're bored out of your mind."

Spencer starts a little, but he carefully composes himself as he looks up. It's the man they call Butcher, although his job seems to involve prowling around the grounds with an axe more than it does butchering anything. He's standing beside the steps, his thumbs hooked into his pockets, and he's smiling.

"They keep telling me I should be resting," says Spencer.

"Too much rest is bad for you," Butcher says, bobbing his head a little. "You want to help me set booby-traps instead?"

Spencer is so grateful to be offered something to do he doesn't even think about it before he's on his feet and agreeing. Then: "Wait, what? Booby-traps?"

"In the woods. Come on." Butcher waves for him to follow and sets off into the forest. He's carrying his usual axe and he walks at a brisk pace, never once looking back to see if Spencer is following. Spencer is breathing hard after several minutes and sweat begins trickling down his back, and it's fantastic. Travis should have kicked him out on his ass to get fresh air days ago.

"Why are - " He stops abruptly and clamps his mouth shut. The question had just slipped out, unbidden, and Spencer waits for the inevitable _don't ask questions._

But Butcher only glances over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

Spencer licks his lips. Right. Allowed to ask questions now. "Why are we setting booby-traps?"

"To catch people."

"Um. Which people?"

"The ones who don't know where the traps are."

Butcher finally slows down a little, turning his head side to side and peering into the woods. Spencer follows warily. "Uh, you're one of the people who does know, right?"

"Well, sometimes." At the startled look on Spencer's face, Butcher starts laughing. "Relax. I know where they are."

Spencer isn't entirely convinced, so he follows more cautiously. He doesn't see anything that looks like a trap, but that's probably the point. "Why don't they just use the road?"

"Who?"

"The people who want to get to the house. There are no traps along the drive." He'd been half-conscious and freezing and mostly convinced that Ryan was an illusion conjured up by his mind the last time he'd gone up the drive, but Spencer thinks he would remember booby-traps.

"Because the house isn't what we're hiding." Butcher stops so abruptly Spencer almost walks into his back. Butcher doesn't seem to notice; he's pacing around, staring at the ground, still talking. "What we use it for, sure, but not the place itself. But this - " Butcher stomps his foot; it echoes, wooden and hollow. "This we'd rather nobody find." He starts clearing away the dirt and matted leaves, and after a second Spencer kneels down to help him.

"What is it?"

Butcher shrugs. "Bill thinks one of his ancestors built it to smuggle slaves. Not like we smuggle them, but the other way around, taking prisoners of war from the docks and sending them over to the caravans." He makes a face. "Very honorable family, the Becketts. Long and storied tradition of being greedy bastards. But their bad habits..." Butcher finds a brass ring and clears the mud out from around it, stands up again to tug on it with a grunt. The trapdoor lifts slowly, and when he can get his fingers around the edge Spencer helps him swing it open. "Their bad habits give us good hiding places."

"For people?" Spencer asks. His voice rises on the question, and he edges away from the yawning dark hole. He's seen a place like this before - he's been _in_ a place like this before, at the home of the very first owner who bought him and Ryan from the raiders who'd sacked the Ross farm. The man had run a mill and his brother-in-law kept a brothel, and they broke in new slaves by closing them up in the underground room until they learned to behave.

Spencer forces himself to breathe. "Isn't it - I thought - "

"Hey." Butcher reaches over and touches his arm, leaving a smear of damp dirt. "We have used it to hide people, but only when the neighbors who are just as upstanding as the old Becketts drop by to ask questions."

"But there are..." Spencer shivers a little in spite of the sunlight shining through the trees. It's not a very big opening, but he has the weird feeling that he could fall in if he's not careful. He takes another step away. "There are no slaves on this side of the border."

"Not now, no," Butcher agrees. "But people are assholes everywhere you go, and they're always looking for a way to make money."

"Oh." Spencer's not really surprised. He knew it was too easy, Jon's continual reassurance that they were safe here, that nothing could hurt them anymore. Nobody's said otherwise - until now. He's not sure whether to be relieved or annoyed. "So what do you keep down there?"

"Right now?" Butcher swings his legs over the edge of the opening. "Nothing much, but sometimes when we get the best of a really wealthy trader... Hey." He stops and looks at Spencer carefully. "You okay?"

Spencer nods.

"You don't have to come down. I'm just going to check some things. You can wait here."

Spencer nods again. When Butcher drops into the hole, he takes another few steps away and crouches down at the base of a tree to wait.

Butcher emerges after a few minutes, dusting off his hands before he offers one to Spencer to help him up. "Been a while since I took a look around down there," he says. "We haven't had to use it in nearly a year, not since Bill's dad dropped by the same week as Eric and Disashi finally managed to put one of the biggest child-trading caravans out of business. Gotta tell Mike to get more food supplies in."

"Don't you ever get worried?" says Spencer.

Butcher grins at him. "Not really. We're a pretty slick operation. The old man didn't suspect a thing."

Spencer spends the rest of the morning following Butcher around the grounds, doing nothing much, and it's more or less fantastic: the sun on his skin, the slight breeze, the company, and most of all the knowledge that if he wanted he could just go and do something else. He finds himself liking Butcher a lot, more than he expected, more than he would have expected to like anyone here. He's tough and practical and funny, and when he looks at Spencer there's a solid, friendly respect in his eyes - and there's a part of Spencer that enjoys the novel awareness that he's being - not just respected, _admired_ , and it makes him smile a little more often, talk a little more freely. Butcher never mentions his reasons for it; they don't talk about Brendon or Ryan or anything that's linked to... everything, and Spencer's grateful for that too.

They spend two or three hours checking traps and finding them undisturbed (except for one hidden pit trap, which contained a starving fox; Butcher had clicked his tongue and sighted along his rifle to put the animal out of its misery) before Butcher stretches and says, "Right, it's past noon. Time to eat. You with me for the afternoon, Smith?"

"I don't want to get in your way," says Spencer.

"When you're in my way I'll tell you so. You can ask Jon if you don't believe me." Butcher knocks their shoulders together, a casual, easy, friendly touch. "Back to the house, c'mon."

"I... Jon," says Spencer, as they're walking over the smooth green lawn towards the front door. "Is he - you've known him for a while, haven't you?"

Butcher gives him a sideways look. "You worrying about your friend?"

There's no point lying. "Um - yeah."

"Don't," says Butcher simply. "Jon's a big soft sap. He wouldn't hurt a fly, let alone - well." He chuckles. "Haven't seen him fall this hard in a long time. I think Ryan's okay."

Spencer rubs the back of his neck. The thing is, he thinks Ryan's okay too. He's being a little weird around Brendon, but that could be anything, or nothing, and the rest of the time he's - Spencer's seen him smile, the quick shy honest smile from before the raid. He's even seen him _laugh_. Ryan hasn't been this okay in a long time, and he doesn't know why he feels so unsettled.

"Hey," says Butcher, "Do you know how to shoot a gun?"

"No," says Spencer, and then, "What?"

Butcher smirks and gives his head a sad shake. "Honestly, what are they teaching the kids these days? Good thing to know, guns, if you ever -" He shrugs. "If you're ever in trouble. Want to learn?"

"You'll show me?" asks Spencer, and he can't keep the surprise out of his voice.

"Sure. We'll go shoot some rabbits for supper."

"I - yeah," says Spencer. "Yeah, that'd be - thank you."

"No problem." Butcher grins. "I'd offer to show your friend Ryan too, but -"

Spencer starts to laugh. He's seen Ryan with a gun, back when Ryan's father still thought he could make his son into a huntsman if he sent him out on enough camping trips. Spencer hadn't been allowed to touch the weapons, of course, but he remembers how even Ryan had laughed at himself then. He's _useless._

"- yeah," finishes Butcher, laughing too. "I hate to say it, but he looks like he'll spook the moment things start going bang. Quiet, isn't he?"

Spencer stops laughing abruptly. That's not - "Something like that," he says, and shrugs one-shouldered. "He doesn't like most people, he. He doesn't _trust_ most people."

He doesn't look at Butcher, but he hears how his voice turns serious when he answers: "We know - we noticed. Shit, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say anything about your friend, all right? Jon likes him, and you and that kid - well. They say you can judge a man by his friends, so he's not doing too badly."

"Ryan's Ryan," replies Spencer, although it's not really a reply at all. He risks a look at Butcher, and feels a little better when Butcher nods at him and bumps his arm against Spencer's. It's okay. Ryan's okay here. Butcher smiles at him, and he smiles back.

"Spencer?"

They've reached the house, and Ryan's standing in the hall. He seems genuinely shocked to see them. "I thought you'd be with Brendon," he says, directly to Spencer, ignoring Butcher entirely. "I was just going to go -" He stops. He looks baffled.

Spencer thinks that's a little ridiculous. It's not as if he's incapable of going anywhere on his own. He's been having fun, even. "Travis threw me out," he says. "Butcher kept me company. Where's Jon?"

"I - in the kitchen, I think," says Ryan. "Eating?"

"Sounds like a good plan to me," Butcher says. "Coming, Smith? We've got rabbits to shoot later."

"Delicious little rabbits," Spencer agrees. "All right."

"You don't know how to hunt," Ryan says.

"Not yet," Spencer says. "Butcher's going to teach me. Is that - " He stops himself just in time. It doesn't matter if Ryan thinks it's okay or not. "This afternoon," he finishes lamely.

Ryan stares hard at Butcher, as though seeing him for the first time, and says, "Be careful." He walks away.

"Sure," Butcher says to his retreating back, and to Spencer: "Lunch?"

After lunch Spencer follows Butcher back outside, around the house and into an empty pasture beyond the stables.

"Here." Butcher holds out a rifle to Spencer. "Take it."

Spencer takes the rifle from him. "What are we shooting?"

"Nothing, yet. You're gonna get used to how it feels firing first. You know how to hold it?"

Spencer lifts the gun hesitantly. "Um."

Butcher laughs. "Yeah, okay, not quite."

"Sorry," Spencer says, but he laughs a little too. "I'm usually looking at it from the other end of the barrel."

He means it to be a joke - not a very funny one, admittedly - but Butcher just shakes his head and says, "Shit, Smith. Okay, here, put the butt up against your shoulder - no, like this." He steps closer and puts one hand on Spencer's shoulder, the other on the rifle. "This hand on the trigger, like this." He guides Spencer's hand into place. "And this one - " He closes his hand over Spencer's and slides his grip along the rifle. "Holding onto the barrel here, like this. Got it?"

"Yeah, I." Spencer nods slightly, careful not to change his position. "Yeah."

He's not freaking out. He is definitely _not_ freaking out, just because he has a gun in his hands and he's not allowed - never has been allowed before - and he's still half-convinced somebody will come charging out of the woods to punish him for it, just because here's Butcher with his chest against Spencer's back, his arm holding Spencer's steady, his hand wrapped around Spencer's on the barrel of the rifle, the metal smooth and warm from the sun. Spencer can feel Butcher's breath on the back of his neck and it's not - it's not _anything_ , except he doesn't let people get close enough to touch, it's not _safe_ , but he doesn't want to move away.

"Now what?"

"Now," Butcher says, right next to Spencer's ear, "cock the hammer."

Spencer does. "And?"

Butcher steps away suddenly, and Spencer's shoulders twitch at the lack of contact. "And fire."

The retort is deafening, and the rifle jumps in Spencer's hands. Butcher laughs at his expression. "Yeah, this model has a bit of a kick. You need to learn how to compensate for that. Not bad, though."

"I didn't hit anything," Spencer points out, lowering the weapon.

"Well, I didn't give you anything to aim at, so. Ready to try it again?"

"Yes," says Spencer at once. The rifle is warm in his hands as he lifts it again and tries to remember everything Butcher told him. Butcher steps towards him once more, stands close behind him and coaxes his hand to move on the barrel, steadying it. "You sight along the barrel," he says. "Tell you what, see that tree? Aim for that."

"All right," says Spencer, and tilts his head, squinting, as he tries to line up the gun with a knot on the tree's trunk. Butcher puts his hands on Spencer's shoulders and kicks his feet further apart. "Brace yourself, remember," he says. "Open stance. Don't tense up, it'll throw off your aim. Okay?"

Spencer says, "Okay." His pulse is quickening a little for - he wants to say no particular reason, but he knows the reason all right.

"And fire," says Butcher, his voice loud from this close. Spencer remembers fleetingly the soldiers who chased them - _hold, take aim, fire!_ \- and thinks that if he'd had this - if he could do this -

The gunshot cracks out. "Huh," says Butcher. "Not _bad_." He sounds a little admiring, looks it when Spencer turns to him. Spencer grins and pushes his hair out of his face.

"I guess that about covers the basics," Butcher says after a moment. "Practice is the rest of it, we can probably set up a target range down here somewhere. Want to go looking for rabbits now?"

"Sure," says Spencer. He feels kind of ridiculously pleased with himself.

They spend most of the afternoon out in the woods and end up with half a dozen rabbits - all of them Butcher's kills, of course, but Spencer thinks he's getting the hang of moving targets and getting used to the feel of a gun in his hands.

"Mike's night to cook!" yells Butcher as they get back to the house, slamming the kitchen door open.

"What the fuck, Butch, no," says Mike, who's in there lounging on a bench with his feet up on the table, a mug of beer in front of him. "It's _your_ night."

"Rules are rules," says Butcher piously, flinging the dead rabbits down on the table. "We caught supper, someone else gets to cook it. C'mon, we're starving here."

"Still not my night," says Mike. "I cooked yesterday. And the day before. Come _on_ , Andy. Maybe it's _Ross's_ night."

Spencer stiffens. He doesn't like Mike's tone. Butcher glances between them and says, conciliating, "Cool off, Mike, you don't need to be a dick about it. Sure, it's someone else's turn."

"What's someone else's turn?" says Jon at the kitchen door, and then, "Ooh, rabbit. Rabbit stew?"

Butcher leaps on that at once. "Only if you're cooking it."

"Sure," says Jon easily. "Nothing I like more than cooking up a nice big rabbit stew for my noble brothers in arms."

"Get Ross to help," suggests Mike snidely. Spencer decides he doesn't like Mike much, but Jon just grins and distracts him with a joke; the two of them start trading wisecracks across the kitchen table as Jon fetches a big knife to skin the rabbits.

"Right," says Butcher. "I'd better get back to work. William's old man thinks he's paying a groundskeeper, so I need to do some actual groundskeeping once in a while. There's still enough light for some weeding."

"Do you need help?" Spencer asks.

Butcher grins and shakes his head. "You take a break, Smith. Check on your friends like you want to. I'll see you at supper."

"Yeah," says Spencer. He smiles. "All right. Thanks."

Butcher turns to leave, and then pauses. "You still rooming with your adventurous friend up in the infirmary?" he asks, voice pitched a little softer than before. Jon and Mike ignore them; Jon's just thrown a disgusting gobbet of rabbit entrails at Mike's head.

"I - yeah," says Spencer. He's pretty sure Butcher's actually asking a different question altogether. The way he's looking at Spencer, half-smiling and expectant, confirms it. "I," begins Spencer, and is a little surprised to hear his own voice say, "I guess he could use a bit of privacy once in a while, though."

"Couldn't we all," says Butcher, his smile getting broader. "Right. I'll see you later."

Spencer's still smiling as he leaves the kitchen and makes his way up the infirmary. The door is open, and Brendon is alone in the room. He's sitting upright against a stack of pillows, bare-chested except for the swath of bandages over his shoulder. There's a book open on his lap, but he's staring at the wall instead of the pages, a small frown twisting his mouth.

Spencer hesitates in the doorway. "Hey."

Brendon looks up and his expression brightens immediately. "Hey! I thought you got lost in the woods or something. I mean, not really, mostly I thought you were scared of Travis. Where have you been?"

Spencer crosses the room and sits on the edge of Brendon's bed. "Sorry," he says, the word rough around a wave of guilt. "I was - Butcher wanted some help, and I was helping, and we went hunting..."

"Hunting, really? I didn't know you could hunt." Brendon doesn't sound angry at Spencer for abandoning him for the whole day, even though Spencer knows he must've been terribly bored. Brendon gets more restless every day, climbing out of bed when Travis isn't looking, tiring himself too quickly.

"I still can't," says Spencer. "Butcher's teaching me, but I pretty much suck."

"I wish I could go hunting," Brendon says with a sigh. "I'm good at it. Well, not really, Alex always said I made too much noise, but..." He trails off and looks away.

Spencer wants to ask how Brendon even knows that, what kind of place he lived in that he was allowed to hunt. But instead he says, "Jon's making rabbit stew."

"Mmmm. Jon's nice."

Spencer just stops himself from rolling his eyes. Everybody thinks Jon is nice, but it's not like he can argue. "Yeah. I hope his rabbit stew is nice too."

Brendon laughs. "Did he talk to you about leaving?"

"Ryan did," Spencer says. He's not entirely sure he got the whole story - he suspects that what Jon thinks is important to share is not the same as what Ryan thinks is important - but he got enough. "What do you think?"

Brendon shrugs with his good shoulder; he's getting better at moving the rest of his body without straining his injured side. "You should go."

"Maybe we'll - what? You're invited too."

"It's not like I can go anywhere right now," Brendon says, a bitter edge in his voice. "I'm too busy being a useless invalid."

Spencer smacks his leg. "Because you got _shot_ , dumbass. We'll wait for you."

"Maybe you shouldn't." Brendon looks down and traces one finger over the book on his lap.

"Why the hell not?"

"It's not - if you're leaving to stay safe, maybe you should - I mean, if Ryan doesn't want..."

"Brendon?" Spencer leans forward a little bit, ducking down to get a look at Brendon's face. "What the hell are you talking about? If Ryan doesn't what?"

"Nothing," Brendon says quickly. "You guys should go. I know you're getting bored."

That morning, Spencer would have agreed. But he had a good day, a really good day, the kind of day he'd forgotten was possible, if he ever knew in the first place. He's in no hurry to leave.

"We're not going anywhere yet," he says.

Brendon doesn't say anything, but he can't quite hide the relief that flashes across his face.

They talk for a few minutes longer until somebody shouts that dinner is ready. Brendon draws his legs up and says, "See you later."

Spencer stands up and takes a few steps, then turns back. "How are you feeling?"

"Um, okay?"

"I mean right now. Well enough to walk downstairs? If I help you?"

Brendon's eyes widen. "Travis'll kick your ass."

Probably, but Spencer spent all day in the sunshine with somebody who doesn't see him as a slave, and he's feeling a little reckless. If he gets to wander around outside as much as he likes, Brendon should at least get to go down for dinner instead of sitting in his room alone.

"If he does, he'll just have to patch me up," says Spencer. "More work for him. C'mon, you up for it?"

Brendon kicks back the covers of the bed and swings his feet to the floor, and he almost manages to hide the wince of pain that comes with moving his shoulder. "Hell yes. But I don't have a shirt."

"Oh." Spencer purses his lips. "I don't think they allow shirtless dining here at the Beckett estate." At Brendon's crestfallen look, he laughs. "Nobody will care, Brendon. Up."

Spencer gets Brendon's good arm slung over his shoulders and his own arm tucked firmly around Brendon's waist, and he says, "You know, this is a lot easier than it was the last time we did it."

"I don't remember that," Brendon says. He takes a few deep breaths. "I'll take your word for it."

They make it down the steps without falling, and in the kitchen Travis's exasperated protest is drowned out by the cheerful greetings. Spencer helps Brendon sit down; he's a little shaky but he's smiling widely, and he doesn't seem at all nervous to be plunked down in the middle of a group of people he's barely met.

Spencer takes a chair next to Ryan, and Ryan leans over to him. "What are you doing?"

Spencer blinks in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"He's not well enough to be up."

Spencer raises an eyebrow. "You're a doctor now too? He's fine."

Ryan scowls. "I'm just saying - "

"Hey, stew." Jon is sitting on the other side of Ryan, and he touches Ryan's arm before passing him a bowl. "Brendon looks fine. He's probably going crazy sitting in that room every day."

Ryan looks like he wants to argue, but he only huffs a little and says, "Fine." He takes the bowl of stew, sets it on the table between him and Spencer, and presses his spoon into Spencer's hand. "You go first, you were out all day..."

Spencer stares at the spoon, then looks up. Ryan blinks once, twice, snatches the spoon back and slides the bowl closer to himself. He looks away quickly but Spencer can see the flush rising over his cheeks.

"Ryan - " Spencer stops. He doesn't know what to say. It's habit, it's instinct, ingrained as deeply for him as it is for Ryan: sharing everything they can, dividing and hiding any extra, always so careful so neither of them goes hungry.

"You can have your own bowl," Ryan says, his voice dry as a bone. "I'm told we're allowed to do that now." He stabs his spoon into the stew and takes a bite, steadfastly not looking at Spencer.

"He's right, you know. You can have your own." Butcher is at Spencer's shoulder, and he sets another steaming bowl on the table. "Enjoy the fruits of your labors, Smith. The rabbits of your labors."

Spencer says, "I didn't do anything except shoot a lot of innocent trees." But he can't help but smile when Butcher slides into the chair next to him.

"They weren't innocent," says Butcher. "I've seen what those trees get up to when they think nobody is around. You'd be shocked."

"I doubt that," says Spencer. He takes a bite of stew; it really is very good.

Dinner is the usual noisy affair, everybody talking over everybody else, telling outrageous stories and laughing at their own jokes. Across the table Brendon is laughing, looking more alive than he has since he gave Spencer the shock of his life showing up in that army fortress, and beside Spencer Ryan is almost talkative - okay, mostly he talks to Jon, but he's still talking and smiling, and it's almost - it's comfortable, it's familiar, it's _good_.

Afterward, Spencer helps Brendon back upstairs under Travis's sternly disapproving eye and promises three times not to encourage Brendon again. As soon as Travis leaves the room, though, Spencer says quietly, "Does it count if I was crossing my fingers when I promised?"

Brendon laughs tiredly. He's looking a little pale, and he slumps down gratefully into the pillows and closes his eyes. "Thanks, Spence. I am so fucking bored up here all day." He says _bored_ like it means _lonely._

Spencer brushes Brendon's hair back from his eyes, smiling at the way Brendon leans into the touch. "You're getting better. You won't need me to drag you around soon."

Something flickers over Brendon's face, an emotion Spencer can't read. He closes his eyes and says, "I'm going to sleep now."

Spencer sits on the edge of the bed until Brendon falls asleep, then he moves over to his pallet on the floor. He lies awake on his back for a while, hands behind his head, listening to Brendon breathe.

Then he pushes his blankets down and stands up again. Brendon is sleeping soundly, and he doesn't stir when Spencer crosses the room and opens the door. He shuts the door quietly behind him but doesn't move down the hall.

"Come on, Smith," he whispers. "Don't be a fucking coward."

He takes half a dozen steps down the hallway before he realizes he has no idea what room he's looking for.

He almost turns around and goes back to bed, except that would be a godawful cop-out, wouldn't it? And Brendon might wake up when he came back in and wonder where he'd gone. And -

And it's been a good day, a _good_ day, even though he's barely seen Ryan (which is a strange thought: long before the raid, long before everything, for most of the last decade now, Spencer's good days have been the days with Ryan's smile in them) and he doesn't see why it should stop now. He shrugs, enjoying the way the muscles in his back move easily, without pain - that's still unusual enough to feel strange to him - and cracks his neck.

The only room he _does_ know how to find is Jon's - Ryan's - Jon-and-Ryan's. He's been in there once, and he tried to keep his gaze away from the bed, tried not to ask _doesn't he - don't you - how can you bear it?_ He's not sure he knows what's going on in Ryan's head anymore. It's okay, it doesn't matter, as long as Ryan's happy -

But he's certainly not going there now.

He walks down to the kitchen instead. It's empty but warm, the stove throwing off heat in waves. If he listens, Spencer can hear chatter and laughter coming from down the hallway - are they in William's drawing room? He tilts his head, picking out voices: Mike, definitely, Travis' ringing laugh, a quieter answer that might be Butcher or might be Jon. He thinks about going to join them. He _could_ , easily. They'd let him. He could sit down with them and join in the talking and joking and they'd make space for him, welcome him in.

He doesn't do it. He grabs a mug off the shelf and draws himself a half-pint of beer from the keg in the corner instead. It feels thrilling, like he's getting away with something when he leans his hip against the table and takes a sip. But he's not. He's not stealing anything. He's allowed to do this now.

There's a faint chuckle from the doorway. Spencer startles and looks up, but it's just Butcher. "Drinking on your own?" he says. "Thought I heard someone come down. Mind if I join you?"

"Sure," says Spencer.

Butcher doesn't bother to pour himself anything; he's got a hip flask, and he comes and settles himself on the table next to Spencer, one foot kicking at the table leg. He unscrews the cap, takes a swig straight from it. "Whiskey," he says, in response to Spencer's questioning eyebrow. "Want some?"

Spencer smiles and looks down, shakes his head. He doesn't know what he's doing here. Maybe he's read it all wrong and he's not doing anything here, how would he know? It's not like he does... whatever this is... a lot. He takes another gulp of his beer. It's sour and a little warm. Spencer wants to ask if that's normal, but he doesn't want to admit that he's got no idea how beer is supposed to taste.

"Hey," says Butcher after they've been sitting together in silence for a while. Spencer's finished his beer and is halfway through another. It tastes better when you're used to it. "You all right?" Butcher asks.

"Yeah," says Spencer. He is, he feels fine. A little light-headed, even. _Fine_. He turns to grin at Butcher, who's gotten a lot closer sometime in the last five minutes. Butcher looks surprised, and then he chuckles. "Can't hold your drink, can you?"

"Um," says Spencer. He doesn't _feel_ drunk. But then how would he know?

"Nah, you're just tipsy," says Butcher, which is how Spencer knows he said that out loud. "Hey, come here." He puts his hand on Spencer's arm, and now he's _really_ close. He's also kind of short. Spencer's surprised he didn't notice that before, but it's really obvious from this angle.

"Hey, hi," he says. "I, did I say thanks? For the hunting lessons? Thanks."

"My pleasure," says Butcher, and he laughs and shakes his head, and he's got his hand on the back of Spencer's neck, and Spencer turns his head a little and their noses bump and that makes him want to giggle, so he does. Butcher's sigh sounds kind of exasperated, but kind of amused as well, and then he tugs Spencer's head down and they're kissing.

Spencer's been kissed exactly twice in his life before. Once by a kitchen maid at the Ross farm and once - once by Ryan. Neither of them chuckled softly into his mouth, neither of them tasted of a faint burn that he guesses is whiskey. He kisses back tentatively, a little stunned that he's even doing this, and makes an involuntary surprised noise when Butcher steps away and shakes his head, smiling.

"I don't take advantage of easy drunks," he says. "Want to pick this up when you're sober, Smith?"

"I - sure," says Spencer, and nods, and then nods again. "Yeah. That'd be good. Sure."

Butcher grins and toasts him with his hipflask. "Until tomorrow, then."

[Chapter Eight](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/2720.html)


	9. But Not the Song (8/17)

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**But Not the Song (8/17)**   
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[Story Index and Warnings](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/446.html)

[Chapter Seven](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/2483.html)

  
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**xvii.**   
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"You can't stay here much longer, you know," says Mike.

Jon nods. He can't. He's conscious that he's putting all the others in more danger the longer he stays this close to the heavily manned and patrolled border. And he's needed elsewhere: they've already had one letter from Tom, a coded screed of exasperation that Sisky handed to Jon when he got back a few days ago. "The Ways," he said as he passed it over, big-eyed, "are crazy. Crazy like _mad people_. Oh my god, Jon."

"I'll leave as soon as I can," he promises. " I don't want to be careless, Mike. But I can't -"

"Right, you can't," says Mike. He sounds kind of grumpy. "Except no one's gonna get a bounty for _them._ I'm just worried, Jon."

"As soon as Brendon can ride," says Jon. "I swear."

"Well, Travis says he's well enough to move," says Mike. "So what are you waiting for?"

Jon's surprised - Travis hasn't said anything to him - but if Brendon can ride, then there's no excuse. They need to leave, and soon.

He goes to the infirmary first; it's usually the fastest way to find them. Brendon's nearly always there, though he's moving around the house more now, with help from either Spencer or Travis. He's got a sling for his bad arm to stop him from using that shoulder too much, but Jon can tell how much it bothers him to slow down like this. He fidgets and complains all the time, and sulks when he's told he can't do something. He's driving Travis crazy. _That kid is an awful patient_ , he'd said the other night. _Awful. Somebody needs to give him something to do._

And Spencer's usually in the infirmary with Brendon - except when he's not, because Butcher seems to have adopted him. The two of them have been spending a lot of time out in the grounds doing target practice, along with more than a little of what William's father would probably call poaching. They'd brought in a deer the other night - "Spencer's kill," said Butcher proudly - and they've all been eating venison with every meal since. Jon's a little frightened, maybe, by how good Spencer is getting with that rifle, and how fast. He's too fond of it, somehow, too fierce.

And of course, where Spencer is, Ryan is - except when Ryan's with Jon, or when Spencer's with Butcher, which is actually usually the same thing lately. Ryan doesn't like Butcher at all, though Butcher doesn't seem offended by it. It's pretty clear that Ryan doesn't like most people.

He doesn't seem to mind Jon, though. He hasn't said anything more about what happened, about (Jon grimaces and makes himself think the words) the kiss, but he's still happy to talk to Jon, keep him company for most of the day, sleep next to him. Jon can't go far from the house, in case of unexpected visitors or sharp-eyed travelers spotting him; he thinks he would be going a little crazy without Ryan around, without Ryan's sly jokes and the quiet, pleased smile which sits so oddly on his face, as if he's still not used to feeling it there.

When Jon gets to the room Spencer and Brendon have been sharing, though, he finds it empty - no Brendon, no Spencer, no Ryan either. The window is open, and the covers on Brendon's bed have been kicked to the floor. Jon's taken aback, and he must look as startled as he feels when he wanders back out into the corridor, because he bumps into Travis there and Travis laughs at him. "Second floor, east wing," he says. "Just listen."

Jon blinks, but he takes the stairs up to the east wing and then realizes what Travis meant, because he can hear music.

It comes in fits and starts, drifts of notes that make up slow half-scales, then chords separated by awkward instants of silence, or fragments of tunes that start quick and sure and then trail off in the middle or stumble on a false note and fall silent. Jon only knows a little about music, but he can hear the frustration coming through. He takes the stairs two at a time.

Ryan is leaning on the wall outside the music room's open door. His arms are folded and he's looking at his feet. "Ryan?" says Jon, startled. "Why are you out here?"

"In case," says Ryan, and Jon, who's getting used to Ryan-speak, supplies the rest of the sentence himself: _in case he falls over and needs help getting back._ He doesn't ask the next question that springs to mind - _so why aren't you in there?_ \- because he has a feeling he wouldn't get an answer. Instead he just nods awkwardly at Ryan and knocks on the open door before he walks in.

Brendon is sitting at the piano, straight-backed, head bent over the keys. His right hand is spread across them in a silent chord, resting but not pressing down. His left arm is against his chest, caught in the sling. He looks utterly focused, but there's a flicker of miserable frustration that keeps passing across his face, and he doesn't seem to have heard Jon's knock. "Brendon?" says Jon.

Brendon looks up. "Sorry," he says at once. "I just wanted to see."

"Are you all right? Where's Spencer?"

Brendon shakes his head and plays the chord. It hangs in the air for a moment before Brendon says, "I don't know. With Butcher, maybe?"

"Are you all right?" Jon repeats.

Brendon looks at his hand on the keys. "Yeah, I - it's been - something," he says, as if that makes sense. He bites his lip and looks up at Jon again. "I'll - I mean. Do you think I'll get it back?"

"Of course," says Jon immediately. "Spencer got you here, Travis patched you up. You're going to be fine."

"You think?" says Brendon, and he plays the chord again. It doesn't really seem to be a question. Jon sort of wants to hug him, but the line of Brendon's back is too tense, too poised, a warning against it.

"Okay, listen, I was looking for you," he says instead. "You're getting better now, so we need to think about leaving. Ryan -" He looks round, but Ryan hasn't followed him in. "Ryan, get in here!"

Ryan appears in the doorway but doesn't step through, and Brendon's eyes go wide. Jon looks from one to the other and blinks, realizing: Brendon didn't know Ryan was there.

They're strange around each other sometimes. But he thinks Ryan would have said something if it were important.

"Right,” he says. "That's two of you. I'll find Spence later and tell him, or -"

"I'll do it,” Ryan says quietly.

"Okay,” says Jon. "Okay.” He takes a breath. "The thing is - I can't stay here much longer. I'm supposed to be helping set up a new safehouse about a hundred miles from here, and, well. You guys are coming with me."

Ryan lifts his eyebrows. "Do we get a choice?" he asks.

Something in Jon's chest twists. "You - fuck, of _course_ you get a choice. I just, I thought you wanted to come with me?"

Ryan blinks. "Sure. Of course I do. I didn't mean - Jon, I didn't mean anything like that."

"Right," says Jon, meeting his eyes. "As long as you know that." He holds his gaze until Ryan nods, shifts and looks away.

"So, um," Jon continues, "you'll need to pack up anything you want to take with you. The guys'll help. I think we'll probably leave tomorrow morning. Okay?"

"Okay," says Ryan.

Brendon's still sitting on the piano stool, looking up at the two of them. He hasn't said anything. "Okay, Brendon?" says Jon.

"I - okay," says Brendon. "If you're - I mean. Okay. Sure."

They leave in the morning.

While Jon and Ryan are getting the horses ready, they round a corner outside the stable and nearly walk right into Spencer and Butcher. They're not doing anything, just leaning together and talking and looking kind of stupidly cute - Jon's almost sorry to be leaving, he's going to miss a lot of opportunities to mock Butcher mercilessly about his crush - but Spencer jumps back and stammers something about helping and hurries away. Butcher rolls his eyes and follows him, calling, "Hey, wait up a second. I have something to give you."

Ryan watches them, his expression perfectly blank. When he notices Jon looking at him, he says, "Well?"

Jon repeats, "Well?"

"Are we ready to leave yet?"

Jon stifles a sigh. He's pretty much used to Ryan's weird mood changes by now; hell, he even kind of likes them, which is just another sign that he's out of his fucking mind. But he wishes he was a little bit better at reading Ryan when he gets like this, snappy and sharp and inscrutable. "Almost. Where's Brendon?"

"How should I know?"

"No reason," says Jon. "Come on, then. We're ready."

Brendon is already standing in front of the stable, nodding impatiently while Travis gives him a long list of things he's not allowed to do if he wants to avoid excruciating pain and prolonged suffering. "Yeah, yeah, _yeah_ ," Brendon says, not even bothering to hide his exasperation. "I'm not an idiot. I won't start trying to climb trees or wrestling bears or anything."

Travis glares at him for a second - he has to look down about a foot and a half to do it, but it's not nearly as intimidating as it should be - and then his face breaks into a wide grin. He ruffles Brendon's hair and laughs when Brendon tries to dodge away. "You're the worst patient I've ever had," says Travis. "If I find out you're not taking care of yourself, I will personally come after you and kick your ass into shape."

Brendon beams. "I will do my very best not to get shot again," he promises.

"Better stay away from Smith then," Sisky puts in. He grins and points to where Spencer and Butcher are emerging from the stable; Spencer is holding a rifle and looking entirely too pleased about it.

Jon guesses that's Butcher's parting gift. "How sweet," he mutters. Brendon snorts in amusement, but Ryan only scowls and turns away, busying himself adjusting a saddle that doesn't need any adjustment.

They say their goodbyes. Butcher whispers something to Spencer and Spencer smiles, that big, bright smile that takes over his whole face. Neither of them looks particularly sad to be parting, and Jon feels a knot of worry loosen. He likes this Spencer who smiles and laughs, even if his enthusiasm for shooting things is a bit worrisome. Jon promises about a dozen times to keep himself safe and not get captured, and Sisky grabs his shoulders and says earnestly, " _Crazy_ , I'm telling you. Don't let the brothers Way make you crazy, Walker. It's too late for Tommy, he's already indoctrinated into their lunacy, but we'd like to keep you sane."

"I'll do my best," Jon says, and doesn't ask for details. He's not sure he really wants to know yet if the Ways are keeping relatives walled up in the attic or something.

It's warm and sunny, a perfect day for riding, and Jon's not the only one glad to be on the move again. Brendon is so excited to be out of the house he's talking non-stop, asking Jon questions about where they're going and what they're going to be doing. Jon thinks about explaining that _they_ don't have to do anything, it's his job and his work, but it seems kind of silly when they're riding along with him. So he tells them about setting up a safehouse, all the details involved and things to worry about, maybe getting a little carried away in his excitement about finally, _finally_ being useful again.

Ryan doesn't say much, but Jon knows he's listening. Spencer is just as quiet, and at first Jon thinks he's not paying attention at all. Then he watches for a minute and realizes that no, that's not it, Spencer is paying attention. He's paying attention to _everything_ , the road and the fields and the forests, the villages they ride through and people they pass, taking it all in with an expression that looks caught somewhere between eager and suspicious.

In a quiet moment, Jon brings his horse alongside Spencer's and says, "Hey."

Spencer looks at him. "Hey." It almost sounds like a question.

 _How's the world look today?_ Jon wants to ask. _Can you see how you're free now?_ But he _knows_ he can't say something like to Spencer, not without risking him shutting down completely, so he asks, "How're you feeling?"

Spencer gives him a strange look. "Fine. It's a nice day."

"It is," Jon agrees.

After the sun sets they make camp in a sheltered grove of trees well away from the road. Brendon looks pretty exhausted, his face tight with pain he's not hiding very well, so when they dismount Jon tells him, "Sit down and rest, Bren, before you fall over."

Brendon drops to the ground and leans against a fallen log without protest.

Jon builds a campfire while Ryan and Spencer take care of the horses. The evenings are getting warmer, but it's not warm enough yet that they can reasonably get through the night without one, as little as he wants to risk attracting attention. At least they've brought enough food from the house that they don't need to hunt tonight. "I can try for some rabbits tomorrow," he says once the fire's crackling merrily. He searches through his saddlebags for a wrapped loaf of bread. "I'll have better luck where we'll be then anyway. Fewer people."

"I can help," says Spencer. He's sitting on the log Brendon's leaning against, resting his elbows on his knees.

On the ground across from them, Ryan snorts, a surprisingly derisive sound. "There's nobody here to impress anymore, you know."

Spencer looks confused, and Jon feels the same. He's pretty sure Spencer just wants to help. Spencer's made it abundantly clear that he doesn't like sitting around doing nothing while others are working. There's no reason Ryan should be upset about it.

"I like to hunt," Spencer says after a moment. "I'm getting better at it." He sounds a little defensive and a little annoyed.

Jon finds the bread and goes to sit next to them. "Good," he says, breaking off a piece and passing it to Ryan. "I can use the help."

Ryan takes the bread, but he's still staring at Spencer. "You never used to care about hunting."

Spencer opens his mouth, closes it, tries again. "I - Ryan, I was never _allowed_ to before," he says incredulously. "You - you _know_ that."

There's a flicker of something over Ryan's face - guilt, maybe, Jon can't read it before it's gone, replaced by his usual careful mask. "Is that what all this is about?"

"Is what all _what_ is about?"

Ryan crosses his arms over his chest. "Give me a fucking break, Spencer. You just randomly decided you like shooting things, and it doesn't have anything to do with who was teaching you?"

"Ryan," Jon begins, but he doesn't know what to say, can't think of any words around the strange sudden dread he feels. He meets Brendon's eyes and sees that Brendon is just as disturbed as he is. Ryan and Spencer _never_ argue. They don't - hell, he didn't even know they were capable of it.

"What the hell, Ryan?" Spencer snaps. "What the fuck does that have to do with anything?"

"I don't like him," Ryan says flatly.

"He's not even _here_ ," Spencer says, throwing one arm out in an exaggerated gesture. "You're about week too fucking late to register a protest. And besides, I." He stops, drops his arm to his side. "I do," he finishes quietly, almost apologetically. He looks down at his hands. "I do like him."

"What the fuck do you even know about it?" Ryan demands angrily and - shit, Jon's never heard him like that before, nor seen the shocked look on Spencer's face when he looks up again. "You don't know what the fuck you're doing. How the hell could you?"

"Ryan," Brendon gasps. "What - don't -"

But they both ignore him. They don't even seem aware that Jon and Brendon are still sitting there, watching in wide-eyed horror, and Jon feels uncomfortably voyeuristic.

"And you do?" Spencer asks, his shock giving way quickly to anger. "What, you know everything now because you're sleeping with Jon? You don't know a fucking thing, you're -"

"Stop it," Jon says sharply. This is going nowhere good. He starts to rise to his feet. "You guys, _stop it._ "

"That's different," Ryan says tightly.

Spencer retorts, "How is that different?"

"It's _different_ ," Ryan says.

"Why? Because it's you?" Spencer is nearly shouting now, and he looks angrier and more frustrated than Jon would have thought possible. "Oh, right, I fucking forgot. It doesn't fucking matter what _you_ do, does it? You can fuck up all you want, it's my job to worry about the consequences, is that still the way this works? You ever think that maybe it's different now?"

Ryan's eyes are wide, scared. "That's not what I -"

"I don't fucking care what you mean." Spencer stands up and looks down at Ryan. "You're so goddamned certain you can take care of yourself now, maybe try to pretend for one fucking minute that I can do the same."

He doesn't wait for Ryan's answer, just turns on his heels and stomps away into the shadows of the forest.

Jon stares at where he disappeared for a second, and then he looks at Ryan. Ryan looks - he looks stricken, like he's been punched. He's completely still for a minute.

"Ryan," Jon begins quietly. He takes half a step toward him,

Ryan doesn't look at him, and he doesn't say anything. He scrambles to his feet and storms away, heading in the opposite direction from where Spencer went. Jon starts to follow, but Brendon says, "Don't."

"What? I'm not going to let him -"

"Maybe you should," says Brendon. Jon turns slowly to look at him. He looks worried and tired, but he doesn't look surprised. "Let them - I don't think you can help with this."

Jon feels a stab of annoyance. "What the hell? Why not?"

Brendon shrugs awkwardly, one-shouldered. "Because - well. I don't think you know what's going on. Do you?"

"I don't -" Jon stops. He wants to snap at Brendon, but this isn't Brendon's fault, and he has to admit Brendon is kind of right. He sits down next to Brendon and leans against him slightly. "I guess not. You want to tell me what the hell that was about?"

Brendon doesn't answer right away. When he does, it's a question: "Did Ryan tell you anything about - about before? When we were still in the caravan?"

"He doesn't talk about it," Jon says, feeling weirdly defensive. Ryan hasn't said a word to him about it, and Jon hasn't asked.

"Yeah." Brendon laughs a little, but there's no humor in it. "That's a big surprise. Did Spencer tell you why he was hurt when you found him?"

Jon twists to look at Brendon. He hadn't even thought to ask; there were a million reasons a master would whip a slave halfway to death, and Jon didn't have to know which one it was to know he wants to fucking kill the man responsible. "I assumed the caravan master was a bastard who got angry for some reason," he says carefully.

Brendon nods a little. "Yeah, that's part of it. Ryan would've been worth a lot of money, you know? The master, he paid a lot for him, I guess he thought he could get it back."

Jon's insides go cold. "What happened?"

"We were - there was this merchant, this buyer - he was looking at Ryan." Brendon's speaking quietly, and his voice wavers. "And - and me, actually, but he didn't want me, he… He was looking, touching and - Ryan bit him."

Jon blinks. "I'm - okay, I'm not really surprised by that."

"I know, right? Except." Brendon shifts uncomfortably. Even before he continues Jon knows where this is going, and he feels sick. "Except the master isn't going to cut up his most valuable bedslave, is he? That's not good for business, there's no way he'll get his money back then. He wanted to make Ryan behave, and the easiest way to do that was to..."

"Hurt Spencer. Fuck," Jon breathes. He should have guessed. Maybe he did guess; there's no way slaves could be as close as Ryan and Spencer were without masters noticing and using it against them. But he hadn't thought about what it meant, not really. He feels like there's a huge piece of the picture he's been missing for weeks. " _Fuck._ "

"That was the only time that I saw," Brendon goes on, "but the way they acted - I don't think it's not the first time it happened. They acted like they were used to it. They were slaves for five, six years, something like that - together, I mean, Spencer was always... And I don't think they've ever really been separated, but that just means the masters could use them. Like that one did."

Jon nods numbly. His heart is pounding to a dull, furious beat; he would like to find that caravan master and do something permanent and nasty to him, though he's got no idea what. Nothing seems bad enough.

"So I think." Brendon pauses, and Jon feels him shrug his good shoulder. "I don't know. I don't really know them, but I think..."

"This is something they have to figure out on their own," Jon finishes.

"Yeah."

"Fucking hell," Jon says.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, surrounded by the night sounds of the forest.

"I'm really glad you rescued us," Brendon says finally.

Jon shakes his head. "You guys mostly rescued yourselves."

"I mean, that it was you," says Brendon. "I'm glad we're with you now."

Jon leans away a little, just enough to reach and put his arm around Brendon's back, careful not to touch his wounded shoulder. "You should eat something," he says, even though he's pretty sure Brendon doesn't have any more of an appetite than he does. "We've got a few more long days ahead of us."

They eat some of the food from the packs, mostly in silence. Brendon starts to yawn after a few minutes. "Get some sleep," Jon says. "You'll get well faster."

"No, I want to -" Brendon starts, but he's cut off in the middle by another, giant, jaw-cracking yawn, and Jon laughs at him a little and tries not to hear how strained it sounds. The fury he's feeling hasn't gone anywhere, but he tries to stamp it down. He has people to take care of here. "Sleep, Brendon. I'll take the watch."

Brendon turns a worried glance on him. "But -"

"There's nothing to worry about around here, okay?" says Jon firmly. "Nothing's going to happen to them."

"What if they get lost?" asks Brendon.

"They'll see our fire and follow that. Go to sleep, seriously."

Brendon protests a bit more, but eventually, mostly by reminding him how much Travis will kick his ass if he keeps being an idiot, Jon manages to talk him into lying down. He shifts carefully to get comfortable, trying to keep the weight off his shoulder, and Jon tucks one of their blankets over him and scrubs his hand through Brendon's hair. Brendon makes a happy _mmm_ sound at the touch.

"Sleep well," Jon says, and settles in to wait.

He's not nearly as calm about Ryan and Spencer running off as he told Brendon. Spencer at least has a weapon, in case he runs into trouble or wild animals or something. Ryan's got nothing. Ryan doesn't know how to defend himself. Jon stares at the flames and hopes to god neither of them does anything stupid. Part of him wants to get up and go looking, but he's not about to leave Brendon on his own.

Maybe half an hour later - the fire's started to burn low, and Jon's tossed another stick onto it - there's a rustle in the trees, and Ryan steps out of the shadows. For a moment all Jon can see of him is a dark thin silhouette, and when he comes forward the flickering firelight illuminates him in blocks of highlight and shadow. Jon stares, taking in the bright lines of his cheekbones, the shadowy dip under his mouth, and there are a few seconds when he just can't _breathe_.

Then Ryan steps forward, and it's easier, because he's still so fucking _pretty_ but in the clear circle of light around the fire he's human again. Jon sees his eyes flick to Brendon under the blanket, to their horses tied quietly at the edge of the clearing, to Jon: looking, not finding. His expression doesn't change. Jon feels so fucking sorry for him.

"He'll be back," he says.

"I know," says Ryan, but he doesn't sound like the knowledge makes him feel any better.

"You should sleep."

Ryan doesn't try to argue like Brendon did. He fetches a blanket silently and then stands there with it for a moment as if he doesn't know what it's for. "Ryan," says Jon, and Ryan turns - just his head, the rest of him doesn't move - and looks at him. His expression is blank.

They stare at each other for a few seconds, and then Ryan walks over to Jon and crouches down beside him. "Can I," he says, but doesn't finish the thought, just pats Jon's leg until Jon shifts a little, and then lies down with his head pillowed on Jon's thigh. Jon tries not to freeze, but he thinks he must tense for a moment - he can't help it, it's _Ryan_. Ryan ignores him, closes his eyes and tugs the blanket close around his shoulders. Jon can't think of a single thing to say. Without any apparent input from the rest of him, his hand comes up to pet Ryan's hair, and he feels rather than sees some of the tension fall out of Ryan's shoulders.

Ryan's fast asleep in Jon's lap and Jon's hand is resting lightly on the curve of his skull when Spencer comes back. Spencer doesn't react, he just stands there and looks down at Jon and Ryan for a moment that might as well be an eternity. Jon still hasn't got a single fucking thing to say, and eventually Spencer looks away and his mouth dips, twists, into something sort of like a smile. "All right if I take the next watch?" he says.

"You don't have to," says Jon.

Spencer shrugs. "I'm not going to sleep anyway."

In the morning, they eat breakfast and saddle their horses and ride back to the road, and Ryan and Spencer don't say a single word to each other. At first Brendon seems determined to fill up the silence, but he doesn't speak to Ryan - it's getting more than a little weird, but Jon knows this isn't the time to ask - and Spencer barely answers him. Jon tries too, but he's worried and frustrated, all of the excitement of their first day on the road gone now. They make camp at twilight; Brendon insists he feels fine in spite of the thin sheen of sweat over his skin, Spencer helps Jon hunt for dinner, and nobody talks about much of anything.

Each day that follows passes much the same. Ryan is virtually silent; it's like they've gone back in time, like they're crossing the mountains again, except now Spencer is with them, and after a few days Jon just wants to shake both of them. Brendon, too, which is completely unfair; he's just being _Brendon_ , singing to himself when nobody will talk, falling into a dark sulk when he tries and fails to do some ordinary task one-handed.

The days grow warmer as they travel, and the landscape changes. There are fewer ordinary farms around them and more vineyards, and the villages are cleaner, more prosperous as they move farther from the effects of the plague. There are a lot of people on the roads, but nobody pays them much mind.

When they finally draw near the outskirts of the village nearest the Way estate, Jon is so relieved he wants nothing more than to rush through and reach the end of their journey. But he keeps them at a normal pace, doesn't draw any attention, and takes the time to look around.

And he sees something that makes his heart leap into his throat.

"Jon." Spencer is suddenly riding right beside him. His voice is low enough that Brendon and Ryan, up ahead, can't hear. "Those men."

Jon nods slightly. "I see them."

It's just a barn like any other barn, beside a dilapidated house right on the edge of the village. There are a few men loitering lazily on hay bales outside the door. But the men are armed; there are rifles leaning against the wall behind them, hidden by draped jackets, and the barn door is barred from the outside.

Neither Sisky nor Tom's letter said anything about the possibility of illegal slavers in the area. They're close to the border here, close enough that it might be worth the risk if somebody's got balls enough, so Jon isn't surprised. Dismayed, but not surprised.

It's just their fucking luck, Jon thinks. The men by the barn glance up at the road and watch them pass with blank disinterest. Jon can't tell if Brendon and Ryan notice them at all, but from the rigid set to Spencer's shoulders and the steadfast way he's not looking at them he knows Spencer knows exactly what they are.

"That'll be fun," says Jon quietly, a few minutes after they've passed the suspicious farm.

Spencer looks at him and raises an eyebrow.

Jon smiles grimly. "I love busting up illegal smuggling rings."

"Is that what we're going to do?" asks Spencer.

Jon hears the _we_ but decides not to comment on it. "Maybe."

Spencer nods, and they ride on in silence.

They come to the entrance to the Way estate a few miles farther along. There are fields and vineyards all around, and the property around the house is protected by a massive stone wall covered with ivy. The drive is guarded by a tall metal gate, at the top of which there are perched on either side -

"Are those bats?" Brendon asks, staring up at the winged metal creatures. "Or some kind of creepy birds?"

"I think they're a cross between the two," Jon says. He eyes the bat-bird-things warily. "Nice change from the usual noble lions and gargoyles, don't you think?"

"They look like they want to eat us," Brendon says.

The drive up to the house is ill-kept and rutted, as though the owners don't use it very often. The grounds are thickly forested, the underbrush so heavy Jon thinks it would either be very hard to travel through or very easy to hide in. And the house, when it comes into view, isn't in much better shape.

"Well," Brendon says quietly, "there are the gargoyles."

There are a _lot_ of gargoyles on the house. Most of them are carved from the same stone used to build the house, dark gray in color and shining slightly in the sun, but some of them are bronze or copper or marble. It looks a little bit like a mad gargoyle sculptor laid siege to the place for several years.

They stop in front of the main steps, and Jon dismounts. But before he can go up to the door - the gargoyle knocker is leering at him - somebody comes around the corner of the house and lets out a cry of surprise.

"Hi!" It's a man dressed in plain clothing. He's clutching a bunch of leafy branches in his hands like a bouquet, and he's dirty and sweaty as though he's been working in the garden all day – or possibly for several days, without bathing. "You're here!"

"Um, yes," Jon says. Groundskeeper, he guesses, not entirely sure how to introduce himself. "We are. Is -"

"Jon!" Tom comes around the corner just behind the man, and looking just as filthy and sweaty. His arm was still in a sling when he left the Beckett estate, but there's no sign of it now: Jon smiles to himself. Tom flings both his arms around him and hugs him with a firm grip, saying, "It's about fucking time you got here, you asshole."

Jon laughs, returning the hug. "Miss me?"

"Nah, I'm just ready to make you do all the work." Tom steps back and glances pass him and nods at the other guys. "Hey. Safe journey?"

"No problems. Where's the -"

Tom cuts him off quickly. "Jon, this is Lord Way. Gerard, this is Jon Walker."

Jon's mouth drops open - okay, he wouldn't have guessed that - but he recovers quickly. "It's good to meet you, my lord."

The man grins broadly and shakes his bouquet of branches at Jon. If he notices Jon's surprise, he doesn't show it. "Call me Gerard," he says. "I hate being Lord Way, that always makes me think you're talking to all the dead people in the portraits, and sometimes I think I should be talking back like a portrait, or a dead man. It's so great that you guys are finally here. We were worried - well, I was worried, Tom says you can take care of yourself but anything can happen on the road, people are fuckers and there's a lot of violent criminals on the roads. Hey, do you guys have names too? Oh, your horses. That's a pretty horse, that chestnut. We don't have any servants anymore, I don't like having people wait on me, but the stable is over there."

Jon blinks. "Over... there?"

Lord Way - Gerard - nods, still smiling. "Make yourselves at home. We're digging out a tunnel under the wall, you want to see it?" Without waiting for an answer, he turns to introduce himself to Brendon. "Hi. What happened to your arm?"

Tom leans close to whisper in Jon's ear. "The scary thing is," he says, "after a few weeks, I'm starting to get used to it."

There's only one horse in the dilapidated stables, and it's Tom's. Jon's not surprised; Lord Way - Gerard - didn't really strike him as the riding type. He sees to his own mare first and then to Brendon's, while Brendon hovers beside the stall, one of his feet tapping unconsciously, his good hand jumping about in the air as he talks. If it weren't for the wound, Jon thinks, he would be dancing on the spot in excitement, and he keeps breaking into giggles. "Did you _see_ that?" he repeats. "Oh my god, he's crazy. He's crazy and it's _fantastic._ I wonder what the brother's like?"

"Calm the fuck down," says Spencer, but he sounds amused.

"You're no fun," Brendon retorts, but the effect is spoiled when he starts giggling again. Jon pats the horse's muzzle and turns just in time to see the end of Spencer's fond eyeroll. Ryan's staring past them, apparently very interested in the patch of fungus eating its way up the stable's back wall. Jon sighs.

Tom told him to dump his stuff in the hallway and _get the fuck out here and help me, Jonny, I'm tired of being the only man on the property who knows how to use a spade._ The other three trail him up to the house, Brendon still talking nineteen to the dozen and Spencer offering quiet, amused answers. Ryan is silent and standoffish, but he walks closer to Jon than either of them.

The front door with its freaky gargoyle knocker just swings open when Jon pushes it. Inside the house the front hall is dim and furnished like something out of a particularly ridiculous ghost story. There's a gigantic staircase directly opposite the door, dark wood with elaborate scrollings and carvings all the way up the balustrade, upholstered in raggedy velvet the color of dried blood and extensively colonized by hundred of spiders. Jon winces when he sees the drifts of old webs tucked into the carvings, winces again when he looks up at the high ceiling and sees more of the same. He's not exactly a neat freak but they're gonna have to clean up in here a little, if only to avoid giving their rescued slaves nightmares.

"Hello?" he calls out, just in case, but there's no sign of the brother. Ryan and Spencer and Brendon are hanging back, sticking close to the patch of spring sunlight coming through the open front door: Jon can't blame them. They all look a little freaked out. "Well, they told us he was crazy," mutters Ryan, but no one answers him.

"Okay," says Jon. "You guys can - well, he said to make yourselves at home, I'm going out to dig."

"I'll help," says Spencer at once.

"I'll -" begins Brendon, and then stops. "Fuck. I, can I come with you anyway? I don't want to be in here on my own!"

"It's just a house, Bren," says Jon. "You need to rest."

"It's spooky," says Brendon emphatically.

"I'll stay," says Ryan. "I don't want to dig."

Jon blinks. Brendon looks stunned, though he hastily tries to hide it. Ryan's not looking directly at anyone. He goes to examine the staircase instead, runs his hand along the rail and sends the dust drifting into the air around his fingers. In the weird light in the hall it seems to hang there, gleaming for a moment before it scatters. Spencer crosses his arms and looks away.

"Okay," says Jon at last. "I guess we'd better, um. Dig. While the digging's good. We'll see you guys later?" He doesn't mean to make it a question, doesn't expect the way his voice rises nervously towards the end. Ryan meets his eyes then and nods, not quite smiling but not quite not, either, and Jon feels inexplicably relieved.

"Sure," says Brendon, talking a little too fast. "Definitely. I mean, if we're not eaten by the ghosts. Or if the brother doesn't turn out to be a vampire. Or anything. But if none of that happens we will definitely see you later."

Jon has to laugh at that, and he sees Spencer smile, but he also sees the way Spencer and Ryan still don't look at each other. He doesn't say anything, though – and even if he could think of something to say, there's no chance to, because at that moment there's a pounding of hooves outside, and a horse neighs.

The rider bursts in while they're all still staring at each other in shock. It's a pretty normal-looking guy, peeling off his gloves as he comes through the door; he has a round pleasant face and a wild shock of curly hair. He bellows a greeting at the top of his voice as he comes in and adds, "You guys are shitty hosts! Did you forget I was coming?"

He stops short when he spots them. His eyes flick across their faces, taking in their expressions, and he says, embarrassed, "Um. Hello there? I - sorry, didn't realize - there aren't usually guests this time of - I'm looking for Gee - Gerard? Or Mikey? Sorry, I'm Ray. Major Ray Toro. It's a pleasure."

Jon knows he's got to reply, but his tongue's gone heavy in his mouth. _Major_ , fuck, the man is a soldier. There's a _reason_ they don't usually add new people to the Cobra without thoroughly vetting them first. He sort of wants to kill Saporta the next time he sees him.

The major's watching them still, starting to look confused, and Jon realizes he still hasn't replied, _shit_ , and Spencer is freezing up behind him, it's terror or defiance or it doesn't matter, what matters is that it's really fucking obvious and this guy is going to _notice_ if Jon doesn't distract him soon. He swallows. The silence is stretching.

"Ross," says Ryan suddenly, at the same instant as Brendon says, "Brendon," and holds out his good hand. The major looks away from Spencer and Jon, thank _god_ , and shakes Brendon's hand politely, then Ryan's. Brendon looks petrified, but Jon doesn't think Toro's spotted it. Ryan does, though, and he continues as he shakes the man's hand, "Ryan Ross, and that's Spencer and that's Jon. We just got here too. Lord Way was kind enough to invite Brendon to stay here while he convalesces. The doctors said country living would be just the thing."

Ryan's lie is smooth and easy and Toro just nods, baffled but accepting, his eyes resting for a moment on Brendon's sling. "Gerard's nice like that," he says, while Brendon quivers and tries to look like someone who gets invited to convalesce in noblemen's homes.

"It was very kind of him," Ryan agrees. "I think he's out in the grounds right now," and fuck, he's pretty good at this - not quite up to Pete's standards of wild improvisation, but close. As long as Toro doesn't look too closely at Spencer's expression, they might be all right. "Jon and Spencer were just going to go look for him. I'm afraid I don't know where Mr. Way is."

"He'll be around here somewhere," says Toro. "Mikey disappears and reappears like a fucking ghost sometimes. Wait, so - how do you kids know them? They're not exactly sociable. Well, Gerard's not."

"We haven't met before," says Ryan. "Saporta put us in touch."

Toro rolls his eyes, apparently satisfied. "Gabe, right. Say no more."

He turns to go out and see to his horse, and Jon assures him they'll let Way know he's here. Toro says, "Don't worry about it. The sun's shining, so he won't be outside long." Then he adds, half through the open door, "I doubt Gerard will think to tell you, but you can take whatever rooms you want. They're not very formal around here. The trick is finding a room that's habitable."

Jon steps over to the doorway to watch him lead his horse toward the stable.

"He's in the _army_?" Ryan says in a low, angry hiss. "How the fuck is it supposed to be safe here with an military officer staying under the same roof?"

"He seems nice," says Brendon hesitantly. "Maybe he's not -"

"Not what?" Ryan whirls around to glare at him. "He's in the fucking _army,_ just in case you forgot what the fuck that means -"

"I haven't," Brendon interrupts sharply. "I just don't think we should -"

"If he's staying here, it's not safe for us." Ryan turns again, this time to glare at Jon. "It's not safe for you, or for - for Spencer or, or us." He carefully does not look at Spencer while he says it. "It's not safe."

Jon's a little taken aback to see Ryan so worked up after so many days of near silence, but he can read Ryan's expression perfectly well right now. _Fix this_ , it says, _make this better_. Jon rubs a hand over his hair and looks up at the cobwebbed ceiling. "I'll talk to Lord Way," he says. "This isn't - we can deal with this, okay?" He tries to sound reassuring. "We'll deal with it. You guys go on up and find some rooms."

Brendon swats at a spider web on the wall. "I think most of the rooms in this house already have something living in them."

"Well, don't take a room from something bigger than you," Jon advises. "I'll be back soon." He goes through the front door, and Spencer follows right behind him. "You don't have to -"

"There's still digging to be done," says Spencer. In the sunlight he looks tense and a little pale, but his face is settled into a calm mask. Jon thinks anybody who doesn't know him probably won't notice the set of his jaw, the rigid line of his shoulders.

"Yes," Jon says. "And it's easier to bolt if you're outside in the open rather than lost in a creepy old house."

Spencer's lips twitch, not quite a smile. "I've had a lot of practice running away from the army. I'm nearly an expert by now. Another couple chances, I'll know all the tricks."

Jon smiles and shakes his head. "Has anyone ever pointed out your habit of making jokes about very unfunny things?"

After a second, Spencer says, "All the time." His expression doesn't change, but there's something about the quiet way he says it that makes Jon suspect the person usually pointing it out to him is Ryan. "Sorry."

Jon bumps his shoulder. "Don't be. I like it." That earns him something very close to a real smile. "It will be okay. It's an unexpected problem -" _Master of understatement, Walker_ , he thinks ruefully, " - but we'll figure something out. And hopefully we'll also find out why the hell they're out here in the forest digging a tunnel."

Jon's pretty sure he doesn't sound convincing, but Spencer doesn't call him on it.  
_

 **  
_xviii._   
**

The house probably isn't going to come alive and devour them whole - no matter what Brendon says - but Ryan has to admit the place is really fucking creepy.

"Maybe we should go back downstairs and wait for Lord Way to get back," he suggests, cautiously pushing open another door. Wait for Jon and Spencer to get back is what he really means, but for some reason he doesn't want to say that to Brendon. They heard the soldier come back inside not long ago, but he hasn't sought them out and Ryan isn't about to go strike up a conversation. They need time to come up with a more convincing story. He doesn't even know if they can trust Lord Way not to tell his friend he's opening his home to escaped slaves.

The bedroom behind the door is just as worn and dusty as all the others they've found. The canopy above the bed looks like it might fall at any moment and smother an unwary sleeper. Ryan backs out of the room, accidentally bumping into Brendon. "Not this one," he says, stepping away quickly.

"You've said that about all of them," says Brendon.

"They're all disgusting."

"We can clean them," Brendon says.

" _You_ can't," Ryan retorts, and it's stupid, he _knows_ he's being stupid. They've slept in mud and muck and filth, under sodden blankets in the rain and burrowed into stinking hay in drafty barns, in sagging stained cots hopping with fleas, so many places far worse than anything they'll find here. But he pulls the door firmly shut and heads toward the next one. They're in a nobleman's house, not stuck in wretched slave quarters anymore. He's going to find a decent place for them to sleep even if it means they all have to share the same bed.

"This one doesn't look so bad," says Brendon, peering over his shoulder when he opens the next door.

Ryan _hmms_ thoughtfully and doesn't answer. Brendon's right; it looks like somebody has at least cleaned the room in the last decade, and there are no obvious dangers to life and limb in the decorations or furnishings. Brendon is standing close enough that Ryan can feel his breath on his neck, but he doesn't move away. He could, he thinks. He could turn and glare at Brendon, and that would be enough to send him scurrying. But if he doesn't - if he pretends he doesn't notice - then it's almost... Not normal. He and Brendon don't have a _normal._ But it's almost ordinary, if he pretends it's never been otherwise.

"It's okay," he says. The room has a big window overlooking the tangle of weeds that passes for a garden behind the house. It feels open and bright, unlike the rest of the house, and it'll be even better if they wash the glass panes. "Spencer will like -" He stops.

"Like what?" Brendon asks.

Spencer hates sleeping in close, dark rooms, places where he feels like he can't get out. He's never said so much as a word about it, and he always acts like he's not scared - always tells Ryan there's nothing to be scared of, calm and reassuring while Ryan quietly panics - but Ryan knows.

"This one is fine," Ryan says. "We'll have to clean it."

"I don't think ignoring it is going to make it any better."

Ryan turns to look at him. "The dirt? We're going to have to -"

"You and Spencer," Brendon says, his voice small. "I thought we should let you -"

"Shut _up_ ," Ryan snaps because, no. He is not having this conversation right now, not with fucking _Brendon,_ who has no fucking idea. "Shut up. It's none of your fucking business."

"You're sad," says Brendon.

Ryan almost laughs aloud. He's not _sad._ He's got a great big fucking hole inside him, like something is gnawing its way out, and there's not a single thing he can do to fix it. "Why would you even care?" he says, but he doesn't wait for answer before slipping by Brendon into the hallway.

Brendon swallows and says, "Okay." Ryan doesn't answer. "Okay,” Brendon repeats. "We'll clean up this room for Spencer. I - wait. Do you hear that?" He cocks his head to one side, listening. "It sounds like -"

"Music," Ryan finishes.

Somewhere in the house, somebody is playing something - a cello, maybe, low and slow and mournful. They listen for a few minutes. The sound echoes weirdly through the corridors and rooms.

"Upstairs?" Brendon says softly. "Maybe there's a music room. Hey, a musical ghost."

Ryan rolls his eyes and doesn't think about the longing on Brendon's face. "Maybe it's our other host."

Brendon's already started down the hall. "Let's go introduce ourselves. I want to see if he's as weird as his brother."

Ryan considers not following. He has to find rooms for them to sleep in, it's about the only thing he can think to do. But he's struck by the sudden, ridiculous fear that Brendon will get lost somewhere in the house, wandering for hours, alone and scared, so he hurries after.

They find the music room up another set of stairs and down a long hallway. There are more open doors on this floor, and through them Ryan can see rooms that look more lived in than those below. Not exactly _clean_ , but at least more like an actual home rather than a ruin. He guesses this is where the brothers spend most of their time.

There is no musical ghost, but there is a young man playing the cello. He stops abruptly when Ryan and Brendon stand in the doorway.

"Hi." He's thinner than Lord Way, his face sharper behind a pair of glasses and his limbs all knees and elbows, but Ryan can see the resemblance. He looks slightly confused by the appearance of two strangers outside his music room, then his eyes widen slightly. "Oh. Hi. You're Tom's friends?"

Jon is Tom's friend, and Jon is definitely a friend, so it's accurate enough. "I'm Ryan Ross," Ryan says smoothly. He can get used to this, if he has to. He can remember how to speak to anybody like an equal again. "This is Brendon -" He nearly stumbles on the lack of a surname, but cuts himself off, and the young man doesn't seem to notice. Ryan waits, but he doesn't speak up to introduce himself either. "Are you Lord Way's brother?"

"You should call him Gerard. He hates being Lord Way. As soon as he inherited the title he started making all these plans to fake his own death so it would pass to me, but I told him I would hate it just as much and he finally gave up trying." He adds, almost as an afterthought, "You can call me Mikey. Everybody does."

Ryan nods, and shifts on his feet. Suddenly he doesn't know what to say next. In theory, of course, he knows how this goes: introduction first, handshakes all round, polite smiles, inquiries after health of relatives or mutual acquaintances, then you move on to the weather. Ryan used to be able to do it, used to be brilliant at it. He remembers being fourteen and being told to be charming for a garden party: he'd picked a girl and talked to her for most of the afternoon, and she'd blushed and tittered and not caught a single one of his increasingly sarcastic barbs. Spencer had been standing two feet away for most of the day, dressed up smart for the occasion and serving drinks, and he'd heard exactly what Ryan was doing. After a while Ryan had started glancing over at him every time he finished speaking, just to enjoy the way Spencer ducked his head and bit his lip, _hard_ , in a desperate attempt to avoid snickering.

They'd laughed about it for ages afterwards.

Ryan's chest feels empty, as if someone's hollowed him out, taken out everything that matters. He ought to be doing - something like that, now, he ought to be charming Way, getting him on their side, but everything's different. The girls he'd mocked were never lords' relatives, and the rooms he'd known had never been so quiet and cold, and there had been sunlight, and there'd been Spencer there within reach, Spencer to entertain, Spencer's smile, Spencer's laugh, _Spencer,_ solid as a fucking rock.

And he's missed his chance, anyway, because Way is losing interest in them. His fingers are moving across the cello's strings in a silent pattern, and it's obviously taking all the good manners he's got not to start playing again. "Did you guys find rooms?" he says suddenly, as if it's just occurred to him that they might need them. "There are some rooms on this floor that are mostly okay, but I don't remember which ones. You shouldn't go upstairs, that's Helena's suite."

Ryan wants to ask who the fuck Helena is, or why there's yet another person, another risk they didn't know about, should have known about, and Jon said - _Jon didn't promise anything, idiot. Jon just said he needed to come here and you followed him._ He doesn't, though. He doesn't know this Mikey person. He doesn't know that -

But apparently Brendon - fucking Brendon - has absolutely no problem asking questions. "Who's Helena?" he says.

"Oh, um." Way looks surprised and sad at the same time, like he didn't realize there was anyone in the world who could need to ask. "Helena's, she was our grandmother. She's dead now. We - Gerard doesn't like disturbing her stuff. We haven't, really, since we started living here."

And that explains the state the house is in, Ryan thinks. Brendon looks instantly contrite, and he says, "I'm really sorry."

Way shrugs and looks down, and his fingers move on the cello's strings again, another quick silent tune. Everything about him says _I don't really want to be talking to you anymore,_ and Ryan thinks the soldier was right about one thing. These people are really shitty hosts.

"That was you a moment ago, right? You play well," says Brendon.

"Thanks," says Way, and now he sounds bored.

"I've always liked the third movement more, though. It's not as sad." Brendon takes a couple of steps into the room. "Do you know -" and Ryan doesn't recognize any of the names that come out of his mouth next, composers maybe, but Way apparently does, because he looks surprised, and then interested, and he's starting to nod. Brendon's smile is sudden and blinding, and Ryan blinks and then looks away.

Brendon walks right into the room, sits down on the piano stool and keeps talking, saying all these things Ryan doesn't know anything about, and apparently it's all right that he doesn't remember how to be charming anymore because fucking Brendon can do it just fine. Ryan stands just inside the door and doesn't say anything. He's not needed. Way is sort of smiling now, an awkward expression on his thin face, and he shakes his head at something Brendon says and plays a quick series of notes on the cello, proving his point.

"Huh," says Brendon. "But I always thought - hey, what about, can you -" And they're off again.

Ryan had known, or guessed, what Brendon was all about. He'd put together that day in the music room at the Beckett estate, with the little Brendon has said about his past, and even the way he sang softly to himself in the caravan. He supposes he hadn't thought about it too closely, because it's a different thing to see him like this, absolutely confident, absolutely sure. Brendon's always skittish around him, big-eyed and careful and ashamed; he lets Ryan silence him or ignore him or cut him off or do whatever he wants. Ryan's been thinking of that as just _how Brendon is_ , but now – now he's watching Brendon argue with Lord Way's brother without batting an eyelash.

"No, you've lost me," says Way, cutting into Ryan's thoughts. "I don't see what you're getting at."

"But I just -" says Brendon. He makes a big frustrated gesture, and then a little strangled noise at the pain the movement causes.

"Careful," says Ryan without thinking. Brendon looks over at him and then looks away again, something flickering across his face and vanishing.

Way doesn't notice, just shakes his head thoughtfully. "We need Ray," he says. Then his expression changes, something occurring to him. "Huh. Actually, Ray said something about coming to visit soon. Maybe he'll turn up."

"He's already here," says the soldier cheerfully from the doorway. Ryan jumps, badly startled, and hopes it doesn't show: Brendon's eyes go wide. "For fuck's sake, Mikey," says Toro. "I told you guys I was coming months ago. I wrote the date down _twice_ in my last letter and everything."

"Gee's got it somewhere," says Way, with a small smile.

"I don't know how anybody can be as vague as you two are," Toro says. "Hey, get over here. I missed you."

Way puts his cello down carefully before standing up for Toro's back-pounding embrace. They're old friends, Ryan thinks: he can see it in the way they smile when they break apart, in how Way flicks a hand through Toro's curly hair and says, quiet, amused, "Did they still not make you cut that mop?"

"They'll never break me," says Toro. "What's going on? What are we doing?"

"Music," says Way. "Hey, um, this is Brendon. Oh, and -"

"Ryan, right," says Toro, saving Ryan from having to reintroduce himself. It's pretty obvious Way's forgotten his name. "We met earlier." He grins at Ryan and goes to lean against the piano, looking pleased. "Music? I knew there was some reason I still bothered coming all the way out here."

"You love us," says Way with a small amused smile.

Toro throws his head back and laughs. "That too."

It doesn't take long before the three of them are talking happily about musical things Ryan can't follow. He stays for a little bit, telling himself that he wants to make sure Brendon doesn't say anything stupid, but he grows bored leaning in the doorway. And Brendon isn't saying anything stupid. He's bouncing in place on the piano stool when he's not playing notes and chords with his good hand, and he's practically _glowing_ he's so excited. And that's all it takes, Ryan thinks. A room full of instruments and a couple of other musicians.

They don't notice when he leaves. He looks through the rooms on that floor and picks out a few they can use. Without really meaning to, he starts to think about what needs to be done to make the rest of the house habitable. It could save Jon some time, if Ryan makes a list; Tom probably hasn't spent much time thinking about things like linens and bedrooms and -

If they even want his help.

Ryan pauses at the bottom of the stairs leading up to Helena's suite. He's curious, but not quite curious enough to risk angering his hosts on his very first day, so he turns away. He hears voices echoing from the entry hall below and heads downstairs again. It's Jon and Lord Way, and Ryan follows the sound of their voices into a large room off the hall. It's a dining room, with a table large enough to seat twenty, although it looks like it hasn't been used in years.

"...need to make sure we have the story straight," Jon is saying. He pulls out a heavy wooden chair and sits down. "I didn't know there would be anybody else here." He sounds a little stern, and Ryan is amazed to see Lord Way duck his head like a scolded child.

"I forgot," he says sheepishly, leaning against the edge of the table. "It's Ray. We've known him forever, and I didn't think -"

Ryan starts to back away - he wants to listen, but this is Cobra business and he's not sure he's invited - but Jon looks up and smiles. "Hey, Ryan. Come on in. We're just working some things out."

Ryan edges into the room, suddenly nervous under Lord Way's openly curious gaze. He takes a chair two down from Jon. "Where's Tom?"

Jon looks at him steadily, not at all fooled. "They're still digging. There's an old tunnel under the wall, who the hell knows why they built it -"

"I think it was smugglers," Lord Way interjects excitedly. "Freebooters. There are old family stories. You know, the kind of family stories every family pretends not to have, except nobody really pretends because it's kind of honorable to have dishonorable scoundrels on the family tree."

He says it like he fully expects Jon and Ryan to be aware of their family trees, and Jon looks amused. "Well, whatever the reason, there's an old tunnel under the wall that we can use, but it needs to be cleared of a couple centuries of earth and roots."

Ryan nods, and then the meaning of Jon's words slams into him. "You're making Spencer dig _underground_?"

"I'm not - Ryan, we're not _making_ him do anything. He wanted to help."

"But he doesn't -" Ryan breaks off sharply. Jon should know better, he thinks angrily, except there's no reason Jon _should_ know better, because Spencer will offer to help even if they tell him a hundred times he doesn't have to. "He doesn't like digging graves," he says lamely, and he feels so foolish. Nobody's said anything about graves at all.

"He's fine, Ryan," Jon says, a little impatiently. He turns back to Lord Way. "We have to figure out what to do about Major Toro."

But Lord Way doesn't look at Jon right away. "You - They made you dig graves?"

Ryan looks down at his hands, smooth and pale and free of calluses. _Nobody wants hands like fucking leather on his cock, boy_. He doesn't answer.

"I've heard that the army does that," Lord Way goes on. Ryan can't quite figure out the tone of his voice. "With the plague victims. We haven't had any plague on this side of the mountains, but people are really scared we will. Where's the other - Brendon? Is that his name?" Lord Way glances at Jon, who nods slightly. "Where's Brendon?"

"Upstairs," Ryan says slowly, wary of the change in subject. "With Mr. Way and Major Toro in the music room."

"You should call him Mikey," Lord Way says seriously. "He hates being Mr. Way."

Ryan blinks and speaks before he thinks, "He said the same thing about you."

Lord Way laughs. His laugh is pretty ridiculous, like the quack of a very amused duck, and Ryan wants to smile in spite of himself. "That just makes it easier. Call me Gerard, call him Mikey. Nobody uses any titles around here. We like it better that way." He looks at Ryan for a long moment, then at Jon, then back at Ryan. He seems to pick up on the skepticism on their faces. "I mean it," he says earnestly. "I know you've met a lot of people who think you're not - who think you're something _less_ , if you're - think you're not people like anybody else. But we don't - anybody who thinks like that, they're not welcome in our house. Ever."

Ryan shifts awkwardly and glances at Jon, who doesn't look any more comfortable than he does. "Good to know," Jon says quickly. "But we still have a problem with your surprise houseguest."

Lord Way - _Gerard_ , Ryan thinks, but he's never going to get used to that - sighs. "He's not like you think. I really do think we can tell Ray, it won't -"

"Tell me what?"

[Chapter Nine](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/2980.html)


	10. But Not the Song (9/17)

_  
**But Not the Song (9/17)**   
_   
[Story Index and Warnings](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/446.html)

[Chapter Eight](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/2720.html)

  
**  
_xix._   
**

Major Toro is leaning in the doorway and fucking _hell,_ Ryan is going to put a bell on that man so he stops sneaking up everywhere.

"Um," Lord Way says. "Nothing?"

Toro looks distinctly skeptical. "Look, Gerard," he says, "I'm sorry, but what the hell is going on? You guys never have guests. You were actually _outside_ in the _sunshine_ when I got here, and there's something you're not telling me. Also, you have mud in your hair."

"It's nothing!" says Lord Way. It's possibly the least convincing denial Ryan has ever heard. He looks as shifty as hell. "Um, how are you, anyway? Did you have a good journey? Is your room okay? We were going to air it out, I swear, but we forgot, and I kind of don't know how to air out a room anyway, so..."

"Gerard," says Toro.

Ryan shares a desperate glance with Jon. Lord Way's squirming like a fish on a fucking hook, and he's going to crack any moment and give the whole game away, Ryan can _tell_. Toro folds his arms and frowns, and Lord Way attempts to hide behind his own hair. It doesn't really work.

"I'm not trying to pry or anything," says Toro finally, sighing. "Look, I – this is just really weird, okay? And apparently Gabe's involved somehow? Please tell me you guys aren't in trouble."

"We're not in trouble," says Lord Way at once. "Well, I mean, I suppose we're doing something interesting, and it might theoretically be trouble if anyone knew about it, but it's all right, they don't, and anyway it's not anything _wrong_ , so –"

Ryan's heart is sinking so fast it'll probably reach his feet in a minute. Jon is trying to shut Lord Way up with sheer force of glare, but he's apparently immune; the only effect it has it to draw Toro's attention to Jon. "You're involved in this, aren't you?" he says. "Whatever it is. Is it all four of you? Where's the other one?"

"No, Ray, I swear it's okay, leave them alone," says Lord Way. "Jon and his friends are just helping out with some stuff. It's fine."

"What is it?" says Toro to Jon. "I need to know. You don't have to give me details if it's all so secret, but I don't want anyone dragging Gerard and Mikey into something illegal or dangerous or just plain _wrong._ "

Jon stands up awkwardly. Ryan can see his hands clenched at his sides. He doesn't know what Jon's going to do, doesn't know what he possibly can say to get them out of this. The moment the soldier finds out what's going on – and he _is_ going to find out, Ryan's certain – they're all done for. Why did he ever think it would be easy, getting away?

"Hey!" says Lord Way before Jon can speak. "Hey, hey, wait, it's not wrong!" He looks stubborn. "Ray, you know we wouldn't get involved in anything that was _wrong._ And no one's dragging us anywhere, we can decide things for ourselves. We're _adults,_ you know."

Toro blinks. "I – okay, Gerard. I'm sorry. It's not wrong, all right." He pauses. "But it _is_ illegal and it _is_ dangerous, is that what you're saying?"

"Not dangerous. Not if we do it properly," says Jon quietly. "Not if you let us do our fucking jobs."

Toro walks over to them and sits down on the table, only a few feet away from Ryan. "Is this to do with the smugglers?" he asks.

Jon hesitates for a moment, and then nods, and then changes his mind and shakes his head instead. "Well, which is it?" says Toro. "Yes or no?"

"Sort of," says Jon. "We're shutting them down."

"You – what the _fuck_?" says Toro. "You're shutting down – why?"

"Wait, wait, wait," says Lord Way, expressing more or less exactly what Ryan's thinking. "What? What smugglers? Who are the smugglers?" He turns to Jon, baffled. "No one said anything about smugglers."

"Jon?" says Ryan quietly.

Jon meets Ryan's eyes for a long moment, and it's almost as if there's no one else in the room. His expression says a whole host of things that Ryan can't read. When he speaks, it's directly to Ryan, though Lord Way is listening just as closely. "There's a slavers' ring operating through the village," he says. "Spencer spotted them earlier. They're probably selling convicts and debtors across the border, something like that. It's pretty common."

Ryan thinks back, but he can't remember anything in the village that looked like a caravan. "How do you know?" he asks hoarsely. "How do you know if they're –"

"I know the signs," says Jon. "We seen this kind of thing before. Too many armed men, barns locked up from the outside. It's –" he shrugs. "I'm sorry. It's not unusual."

Ryan nods, breaks Jon's gaze. Even here. He thought there wouldn't be, not here, but of course –

"Hang on," says Toro. "Hang the fuck on. _Slavers_? There are _slavers_ in the village?"

"Well – yes," says Jon. "The smugglers. I thought you said –"

"I didn't say anything about goddamn slavers!" says Toro. "I just meant the Ladies, Helena's girls. But they don't deal with that kind of thing –"

"The _who_?" says Jon.

"What the fucking fuck?" says Lord Way. Ryan's starting to feel friendlier towards him. He seems to be the only person in the room who has as little idea what's going on as Ryan does.

"I thought you knew," Toro says to Lord Way. "I thought you - how can you _not_ know? Your grandmother... Everybody in the village knows. Seriously, Gee, how can you not know?"

Lord Way flaps his hands kind of helplessly. "I don't even know what it is that I don't know. Does anybody want to explain it to me?"

Jon crosses his arms, leans against the table, and nods at Toro. "I think that's a good idea."

Toro shrugs. "There's a smuggling operation in the village. There has been since - I don't know, a long time. Your grandmother," he nods at Lord Way, "set it up about the same time the crown started taxing goods moved between the provinces. She didn't like that ordinary things were too expensive for people to afford... Gerard, honestly, you had no idea?"

Lord Way shakes his head slowly. He looks a little awed. "A _smuggling ring_? That's fantastic!" His expression quickly changes into a frown. "But why didn't she tell me? I would've understood."

"Maybe she didn't want to put you in danger," says Toro gently.

Ryan thinks it's more likely that the late Lady Helena had assessed her grandson's talent for subterfuge and found it distinctly lacking, and he guesses from Jon's skeptical expression that he's thinking the same thing. "But these smugglers," Jon says, "they're not the ones moving the slaves?"

Toro shakes his head firmly. "No. Definitely not. They never work in slaves."

"Who are they?" demands Lord Way. "And how do you know about this? You don't even live here! I can't believe you never told me."

Both Jon and Toro ignore him. "Why not?" Jon asks. He sounds as calm as ever, but he's watching Toro with a very sharp look in his eyes.

Toro answers, "You'll have to ask them when you meet them."

"I want to meet them," Lord Way puts in. "Or have I already met them?"

"Why haven't you broken them up?" asks Jon.

Toro meets Jon's eyes steadily. "Why do you care?"

"It's your duty, isn't it?" says Jon. "Smugglers are stealing from the crown."

It's a test, Ryan realizes. They're testing each other, and they both know it.

"I know what my duty is," says Toro.

Jon presses, "So why don't you?"

"I kind of want to know that too, Ray," says Lord Way. "If you've known about this for a while, Jon's right, it's your _job_ -"

"Probably for the same reason you're making friends with people who help slaves escape," Toro says.

Ryan stops breathing. Jon doesn't react at all - his face is like a mask, perfectly still - but Lord Way flinches visibly.

"That's what this is about, isn't it?" asks Toro. Lord Way doesn't answer. To Jon, Toro says, "You just said you saw the slavers when you rode through the village, but you're already planning to go shut them down. You haven't even been here a day."

There is a long silence.

Lord Way lets out a loud sigh and slumps down in a chair. "I told you he would figure it out."

"You suck at lying," Toro says, shaking his head. "You should've gotten Mikey to do it. Nobody can ever tell what he's thinking. He always looks bored."

"Mikey can't remember all the important details," Lord Way says. "But you see why it's not wrong. It might be dangerous, but it's not _wrong_. It's right, Ray, I know you agree with me. We have to -"

"What are you going to do?" Jon interrupts.

Toro raises his eyebrow. "Do about what?"

Jon gestures impatiently. "You know what I mean."

"Well." Toro considers for a moment. "I think the first thing _you_ need to do is go talk to the village blacksmith."

_

 _  
**xx.**   
_

Brendon's - Brendon's _happy._

He's found a room - well, Mikey pointed him to one which he said was "pretty okay, just don't disturb the squirrels. They live by the window, we feed them sometimes" - and he's sitting on the bed. He would be lying on the bed but he's not sure he can get the sling off by himself and it's kind of uncomfortable as it is. He hurts and he's tired - he pretty much always hurts, and he's always tired at the moment - but it's not as bad as it could be.

And he's happy. Not sick-relieved-happy, or well-I-guess-I-didn't-get-ripped-to-pieces-by-dogs-happy, or thank-fuck-that's-over-happy, but genuinely, honestly happy. The Ways have a music room, and unlike the rest of their house it's clean and nice and not spooky. Mikey's nice too, in a quiet, hilarious way. And Ray is -

Brendon's kind of torn, to be honest. Ray is a soldier, like fucking Colonel Valdez, and maybe he'll be _like_ the colonel. There's no reason to think he won't be. Maybe he'll realize that something's going on and bring down the nearest fortress on their heads. Maybe he'll ruin everything. Brendon saw the look on Spencer's face earlier, and he's getting better at reading Spencer - or maybe it's just that Spencer's been less guarded around him lately - because he knows that look was Spencer being afraid.

But the thing is, the fucking thing _is_ , that Ray is actually really likeable. Brendon always wants to like people who understand music like he does, who _think_ about music like he does. He liked Patrick at once, when he first met him. (Liked him and maybe kind of crushed on him; he'd been sixteen and Patrick had been extraordinary. Brendon had been really embarrassingly obvious about it, too. Ryland teased him. It feels like a million years ago.)

And Ray was pleased to meet him, was nice to him, and he filled in the left-hand part on the piano when Brendon couldn't play it. But he'd also given Brendon a curious look, a considering look. Brendon looks down at his good hand and wonders if soldiers can tell what a gunshot wound looks like, if Ray knew or guessed or - something.

He thinks maybe Gerard and Mikey won't let anything happen. He thinks Jon won't let anything happen. He thinks he's got no idea what to think. And Ryan spoke to him, earlier. Ryan stayed with him, and spoke to him, and he thinks he's got no fucking reason, or, or no _right_ to care so much, but he does, he really does.

All he wants right now is to flop back on the bed and close his eyes and just _sleep_ , but he knows from experience that flopping anywhere, even on a soft surface, is a pretty bad idea.

A squirrel leaps onto the windowsill and scolds him noisily. "Sorry," says Brendon. "I don't have any food."

"Do you want some?"

Brendon looks round and smiles: Jon is in the doorway. "It's suppertime," he says. "And afterwards I have to go down to the village and talk to the blacksmith."

"Oh, okay," says Brendon. "Food's good." Then he asks, "The blacksmith? Why?"

Jon's smile dips wryly. "S'what I'd like to know," he says. "There's a lot more going on in this village than we knew. But you don't have to worry about that tonight," he goes on, clapping Brendon on his good shoulder as they leave the room. "Tom and I will go check it out. Look, about Major Toro."

Jon stops walking, and Brendon waits beside him. "He's nice," says Brendon hesitantly. "Do you think he's -"

"He's already figured out what we're up to, more or less," says Jon. He sounds worried, but like he's trying to hide it. "But I don't think he's going to run off and turn us in. As far as he knows, we haven't done anything illegal yet. He doesn't know Tom and I are wanted, or that you guys have escaped. Gerard - Lord Way - I think he suspects, but Toro thinks we're just planning to help others."

"Oh." Brendon bites his lower lip. "What's going to happen?"

"We'll figure something out," says Jon. He puts on his ordinary easy smile, but Brendon can see how strained it is. "But tonight, mostly I need you to keep Ryan and Spencer from freaking out and doing something stupid, like running away."

Brendon's eyes widen. "They won't do that."

Jon glances at him sideways. "I don't think Spencer is thrilled about sleeping under the same roof as a military officer. But I have no idea what's going on in his head. Just keep an eye on him, okay?"

"I will," promises Brendon. "Both of them." Even though they're acting all weird around each other right now, he doesn't think Spencer would do anything drastic without Ryan, so surely...

But then Brendon thinks of Spencer stumbling away behind the soldier's horse, or kneeling in the stocks at the fortress, and he thinks maybe Jon's right to worry.

Supper is in the kitchen, not the massive dining room with its ornate table and chairs, and the meal is simple and hurriedly put together. Lord Way doesn't apologize for it, though, just sits down and eats with the rest of them like he doesn't even notice, and Brendon thinks he's going to like Lord Way as much as his brother.

Brendon takes a chair next to Mikey and listens to the others talk. They're not saying anything important, but there's obviously something Jon and Ray are avoiding, something hidden in the careful way they talk around each other. Brendon feels a pang of annoyance that Jon didn't tell him more about what's going on, but there will be time for that later.

They've been sitting down for a few minutes before Ryan comes in. He looks around at the empty chairs, but he doesn't sit until Tom and Spencer follow right behind him. They've just come from outside, and neither of them has washed up yet, but considering that Lord Way hasn't washed up either, Brendon thinks it won't be a problem.

What is a problem is the way Spencer stops cold just inside the door, his gaze darting to Ray and away again just as quickly. Ray doesn't seem to be paying attention, and Spencer recovers quickly and takes a chair down the table. Only after he's sitting does Ryan sit down too, placing himself firmly between Spencer and Ray.

Brendon rolls his eyes, and when Ryan glares at him across the table he only smiles. This isn't Ryan's _shut up, I'm genuinely angry_ glare, this is his _shut up, stop laughing_ glare, and Brendon doesn't want to think about when he started being so sure of the difference.

"I don't know your name."

Mikey is leaning forward, looking down the table at Spencer.

Spencer hesitates, looking a little bit like he hopes there's somebody else sitting in his chair, but he answers calmly enough. "I'm Spencer. Smith."

Spencer has a surname, Brendon thinks. He's noticed before - the people at the Beckett house used it - but he's never thought about how strange that is. He wants to know how, where it came from, when Spencer was born a slave into a family of slaves, but now is definitely not the time to ask. He doesn't know if Spencer would want to tell him anyway.

Mikey just nods at the introduction. "Hi. I'm Mikey." Then he turns to Brendon and asks, "When did you learn to play the piano?"

For one panicked second, Brendon thinks he's asking _how_ he knows to play the piano, _why_ a slave would learn such a thing at all, and he can't answer that, not with Ray sitting at the table. But then his mind catches up to the words, and he scrambles for an answer. "My grandfather taught me," he lies. It was his first owner, an old man with an old house, and Brendon had been one of the kitchen boys until he sneaked out one day and got caught banging on the piano keys. The housekeeper had spanked him, but the old man stopped her, saying, _Nobody is punished for making music in this house._ "I was really little," he says. "He loved music, and he taught me a lot of different instruments."

"You must really miss him," says Lord Way.

Brendon hasn't thought about the old man in ages, but he does, a little. Or maybe he misses having somebody show him new things every day, pestering him when he didn't practice enough and praising him when he did something right. And that's probably more than a little fucked up, he thinks. Slaves aren't supposed to miss their masters, even the good ones.

"He died a long time ago," he says with a shrug. Ryan is watching him from across the table with an expression Brendon can't read, like there's something he wants to ask, words on the tip of his tongue.

But the conversation turns to other things. Ryan calmly continues eating, and the moment passes.

Jon and Tom eat quickly and excuse themselves to go to the village - "I hope this blacksmith is as helpful as you say she is, Toro," says Jon, and Ray replies, "Just don't make her angry, she's mean with a poker" - and Spencer leaves soon after, offering a strained goodnight. Brendon's not even a little bit surprised when Ryan follows him, though he figures it's probably too much to hope that either of them will actually say anything. Spencer will end up in a room somewhere, not sleeping, and Ryan will hover silently in the hallway, worrying, both of them pretending they don't know the other one is there. If they don't stop being stupid soon Brendon thinks he might have to take some action. He has no idea what he can do, but there must be _something_.

When Ray and Mikey leave to go up to the music room, Brendon wants to follow - he thinks he'll be welcome - but there's a table full of dishes to wash and only the lord of the house left in the room.

"I can wash up," says Brendon uncertainly.

Lord Way looks at him and smiles crookedly. "Can you use your feet? Because I don't think one arm is going to do it."

"I can try," Brendon insists.

"You can help," says Lord Way. He pushes back his chair and stands up. "It's actually Mikey's turn, but he always forgets."

"Why don't you have any servants?" asks Brendon.

Lord Way shrugs. "I don't like having people around."

"And you would rather -" Brendon cuts himself off. He can't just start asking questions of a nobleman, not even the kind of nobleman who would rather wash his own dishes than have servants in the house.

"Do all this stuff myself?" says Way. He splashes at the water in the bucket and makes a face. "Yeah, I guess so. We're not very good at keeping house -" Brendon _tries_ , he does, but he can't quite stifle the amused noise in his throat. " - but our grandmother, she always said a man should know how to take care of himself in case... in case there was no one else. You can ask, you know."

Brendon hands him the first dish. "Ask what?"

"Whatever you want. Your friends are kind of quiet."

Brendon thinks about it for a moment before answering. "They're worried," he says finally. _Scared_ is more accurate, but it feels like a betrayal to tell Way that.

"Because of Ray. I get it, I guess," says Way. He gestures with one hand and manages not to fling the dish across the kitchen. "Ray's not like most of those assholes. There are a lot of things the army does that he doesn't like."

That could cover a lot of ground, but Brendon isn't sure how to ask if it includes dragging runaway slaves behind horses and locking them up in stocks and shooting at them when they run away again. Instead he says, "We haven't met very many soldiers who didn't try to kill us."

There isn't a trace of humor in Way's voice when he says, "I really wish people weren't so awful all the time."

After they finish the dishes, Way wanders away, and Brendon climbs the stairs. He's thinking of going to the music room, but he stops halfway up and changes his mind. He decides to find Ryan instead. With Jon away having a meeting with a blacksmith and Ryan and Spencer still acting all weird, and the house big and dark and drafty at night, Ryan might want some company.

 _Even if he does, he won't want to see you_ , a little voice in Brendon's mind whispers, but another little voice whispers, _But maybe he will_ , and that's the one Brendon decides to listen to. At least until Jon gets back. Ryan shouldn't have to hang around this creepy house alone.

Brendon isn't surprised to find him in a room not far from the one they picked out for Spencer. It looks like it was a library at some point, although most of the shelves are empty now, and in the candlelight Brendon can see the twiggy mess of a bird's nest in one high corner. Ryan is standing by the window, looking out at the sky through a broken pane of glass.

"Hi." Brendon stops in the doorway. He doesn't need Ryan to invite him in, but he doesn't want to intrude if he's unwelcome. Well - yes, he _wants_ to, but he won't.

But Ryan only glances over his shoulder and says, "Hi. I thought you'd be up in the music room."

Brendon goes into the room and sits down in an upholstered chair by the window. The fabric smells musty, like it's been rained on a few too many times and never properly dried. "I don't want to bother them too much," he says. "And I can't do much anyway, not with just one arm."

Ryan leans against the window frame and looks down at him. "It wasn't your grandfather, was it. Who taught you to play."

"My first owner," says Brendon. "He was... He was an old guy. All of his family lived far away. He wasn't mean."

"How old were you?" Ryan's speaking quietly, like he's not sure he's allowed to ask. Brendon understands; you don't ask, not usually. Slaves are supposed to behave as though they've always been slaves and never speak about what came before, never act like they have ever been anything more than property. He knows, he can tell, that Ryan was never able to do that. He knows Ryan suffered for it.

"I don't know. Four, maybe?" It's all blurry in Brendon's memory: his mother crying, the debt collector's dark wagon, and himself, too young to understand, waving as they drove away. "I barely remember my parents. My family. I had brothers and sisters too. I don't even..." He clears his throat. "I don't even remember their names. I mean, I don't think I do. I used to have names for them, but I think I made them up."

It's a little while before Ryan speaks. When he looks at Brendon again, his eyes are burning large in his face, and there's a strange intensity to him - strange even for Ryan. "The man who - the one who taught you to play. You said he wasn't mean."

"He was kind," says Brendon. He kicks his feet against the legs of the chair and wonders if that's the right word. He hadn't understood it for many years, not until the old man died and he'd passed to owners who were less so. Most of them were indifferent, some of them were cruel, but the old man, like Lady Victoria, had actually been kind. "Sometimes they are."

"That doesn't make it better," says Ryan, suddenly severe. "That doesn't make it different."

It doesn't make it _okay_ , Brendon thinks, but it is different, maybe even better, in a way that he feels almost guilty to consider. But Ryan doesn't need to hear that, not anymore. He's free now - again. So he only agrees, "No, it doesn't," and watches Ryan's face, trying to figure out what this is about.

"My father wasn't kind," says Ryan.

 _Oh,_ thinks Brendon. _Oh._

"He wasn't - he could be cruel, sometimes, because he didn't care about the - the slaves." Ryan crosses his arms over his chest. He looks cold, and Brendon wants so much to go to him, if only to put a warm hand on his shoulder, but he stays in his chair, curls his legs up beneath him and waits. "Not as bad as some. But he wasn't kind."

"Did you..." Brendon stops when Ryan looks at him, swallows hard and tries again. "Did you tell Spencer you were going to set him free?"

Ryan's face changes instantly, subtle longing fading into a blank mask. "He doesn't believe me," he says shortly.

Brendon thinks the problem isn't that Spencer doesn't believe _Ryan,_ but that Spencer doesn't yet know how to believe in freedom. But those two things probably look very similar from Ryan's perspective.

"Smith," says Brendon suddenly. "He has - how does he have a surname, if his family was always slaves?" He doesn't mean to ask - he doesn't know if Ryan will tell him - but the question is out before he can stop himself.

"Oh." Ryan turns toward the window, but Brendon can see his expression slip from careful impassiveness into something that might be amusement, or maybe embarrassment. "That was - it was stupid. It was just - I was only nine or ten, I didn't know. I just thought it would be - I don't know. Fair. I just liked the way it sounded. I wasn't thinking about anything except matching."

It takes Brendon a second to untangle what Ryan's saying. "You mean _you_ gave Spencer his last name?" He tries to imagine Ryan at ten years old, whispering names to himself until he finds one he likes - _Ryan Ross, Spencer Smith, Ryan Ross, Spencer Smith_ \- testing the sounds on his tongue, never mind that he's always known slaves don't have surnames, never mind that it's not _allowed_.

"It's not _real_ ," Ryan says sharply. "I was just a kid. It doesn't mean anything."

Yet it's ten years later and Spencer still uses it. Brendon says, "I don't think it's stupid." He doesn't remember his family's name at all. He must've known it at some point, four isn't that young, but there's only a blank space in his memory where a name ought to be. Brendon forces a smile and adds, "Although, you know, you could've picked something a little more creative."

"Shut up, I was _ten_ ," Ryan says, but he doesn't sound truly angry. Then he exhales slowly, and his breath forms a cloud on the window, quickly fading. "The village isn't very far. Jon should be back soon."

Brendon rubs his good hand over his hurt arm, massaging the forearm held so painfully still by the sling. "Yeah," he says. "Probably."

And then, because he's curious, because he's _stupid,_ because he's never been all that good at keeping his mouth shut, he says, "Um. You and Jon -" He stops there, because even saying that much feels like poking a bruise, and Ryan's shoulders have stiffened. "Sorry, sorry," he says. "I'll just - sorry."

"It's not like that," says Ryan tightly. He's staring at the view of the tangled gardens outside the window like it holds the secret of life or something.

"I'm sorry. It's none of my business," says Brendon, jumping to his feet. He should go. He shouldn't have pushed it. He'd been so happy Ryan seemed to be forgiving him about, about... He'd been so happy that he'd forgotten that Ryan didn't like him _anyway_ , even before. And now he's spoiled everything and -

"He," says Ryan to the windowpane. "He kissed me."

"Oh," says Brendon.

The room is quiet - not quiet like a library is quiet, but quiet like an empty place.

"He kissed me," Ryan repeats, "and then he didn't, didn't say, didn't do, _didn't_ -" Ryan turns around and looks straight at Brendon, and he's got more expression on his face than Brendon's ever seen there. "Who - who does that?" he demands, as if Brendon's going to know. "I don't understand..." He trails off again.

Brendon swallows. "Jon's nice," he says. Jon _is._ He likes Jon.

"He doesn't make sense," says Ryan, mostly to himself. "He just doesn't." And he looks back at Brendon, saying, "I asked him, you know? I - when you were - I asked him why. Why he does this, any of this, why he kept helping us."

"What did he say?" says Brendon.

"He didn't, really. He didn't say anything." Ryan shakes his head and goes back to looking out the window. Brendon wants to touch him, but doesn't, can't, move.

Finally Ryan murmurs, "I don't think Spencer likes him much."

Brendon shakes his head, but Ryan's not looking. He hasn't seen any evidence of Spencer _disliking_ Jon. But then, he doesn't know Spencer like Ryan does. "It'll be okay," he manages to say at last. He bites his lip for a second, and then stops when he realizes in case Ryan turns around and sees. "It'll be fine. You'll - it's not - everything's different now."

"Yeah," says Ryan. "It's all different." And then he does turn around, and Brendon meets his eyes mostly by accident, and for a long moment that's probably not really more than a few seconds they're staring at each other.

It's getting dark. The shadows on Ryan's face look nothing like makeup.

Brendon's mouth is dry. He should - he should step back. Ryan can't, he's already right by the wall, there's nowhere for him to go. Brendon should step away.

"It's getting late," he says. The words are too loud in the echoing room.

Ryan looks away and crosses his arms over his chest. "I'm going to wait for Jon."

It's not a dismissal, it's not even a good night, but it's enough to break whatever spell is holding Brendon in place. He steps back once, and again, and says, "Yeah, that's - yeah. Okay. I'm just going."

But Ryan doesn't look away from the window, and he doesn't seem to notice Brendon's half-finished sentence hanging in the air. Brendon leaves without saying anything else. He climbs the stairs to the third floor and finds the room he claimed earlier. _His_ room, he thinks, feeling a tiny thrill for daring to call it that. There are no squirrels chattering in the window now, and the room is dark; he forgot to bring a candle up with him. He sits on the bed and scoots back until he's leaning against the headboard, pillows propped behind him. He wants to wait for Jon too, but the bed is soft, if a bit musty, and he finds himself drifting off before long.

He wakes in the morning, cold and cramped from a night spent half-upright on top of the blankets. He doesn't know at first what woke him, but as he yawns and stretches and cracks his neck he hears footsteps hurrying through the house, and raised voices down the hallway. He's halfway across the room when the door bursts open and Spencer comes in.

"There, there you are," he says. He's red-faced and breathing hard, like he's been running. "I was looking for you, we have to, I don't know what -"

"Spence," says Brendon, immediately concerned. "What's wrong?"

"It's Jon and Tom," says Spencer. "They're not back. Last night, they never came back. Their horses did, but they didn't."

Brendon feels his mouth drop open, and a shiver runs through him. "But the village - it's close. How could they - they went to the village?" That's what Jon had said. To the village to talk to the blacksmith, that's all. He hadn't seemed very worried before they left.

"Toro," Spencer says, nearly a whisper. He looks over his shoulder like he's going to be caught saying the name. "Toro sent them to the village."

"Where's Ryan?" Brendon asks.

"Downstairs. I think - going downstairs," Spencer says. "There are these _women_ here. I don't know who they are or what they want or -"

Brendon rubs his hand over his face, feeling a tug of pain in his stuff shoulder and back from the motion. Spencer looks helpless and furious and frightened all at once, but he seems to be waiting for Brendon to do something - for Brendon to _decide_ something. "Well," Brendon says, hoping he sounds a hell of lot calmer than he feels. "Let's go find out."

Spencer doesn't move. "It's supposed to be safe here," he says.

"We should go find out what's going on," says Brendon firmly. He touches Spencer's arm, and then walks past him out of the room. It's a few moments before Spencer follows, but Brendon doesn't let himself hesitate. This is what Jon would do, he thinks. If strange people came to the house and somebody was missing and there was trouble, he would march downstairs and find Lord Way and figure out what the hell is going on. And Jon's not here, so it's up to them.

Ryan is standing at the top of the staircase, on the top step as though he started down then changes his mind. "They're outside," he says as Spencer and Brendon walk up to him. He doesn't look at either of them as he speaks.

"Who?" asks Brendon. In the entry hall at the bottom of the stairs, the front door is open and sunlight is spilling in. He can hear voices from outside, but he can't understand what they're saying.

"Lord Way. Toro. Some women are here," says Ryan. He looks at Spencer quickly, and even though Brendon's pretty sure they haven't even spoken to each other in days, he can still see the quick exchange of expressions between them: _what about, we don't know, we have to, now._ "We need to keep us safe and..." Ryan pauses, then nods. "If Jon's in trouble, we need to help. We owe him."

He says it stubbornly, almost defiantly, as if he's expecting one of them to object.

"Of course," says Brendon. It's _Jon_. And Tom too, and Brendon doesn't want to think about what kind of trouble they could be in, what could make _both_ of them vanish, but he knows they have to help. "Of course, Ryan."

"What can we do?" says Spencer. "What the hell can we -"

"We can work out what's happening," Ryan says. "Toro doesn't know about us, that we're - what we are. He can't be sure - and anyway it's a risk we'll have to take. Brendon."

Brendon waits.

"They like you, Way's brother, and Toro," says Ryan. "You can go and ask, find out -"

Brendon swallows, but he nods. He can do that. He owes it to Jon, he owes it to Ryan and Spencer. And he knows that of the three of them, he's probably the least scared. He spent hours yesterday talking to Ray and Mikey, and he's spoken to Lord Way too. It doesn't matter, not here, because they don't know he shouldn't be allowed to ask questions, to make them explain. They don't know. He can do it.

But Spencer says, "Oh hell no, Ryan. Don't do that to him."

Brendon glances at him, surprised.

"We'll come with you," Spencer says. "We're not sending you down to talk to them alone. We'll come with you."

Ryan looks at Spencer for a long moment. Then he nods. "We'll come with you."

"Okay," says Brendon. It's no big deal, he thinks, but he's relieved. "I - okay. Thank you. Okay."

They go down the stairs, Brendon first, Ryan and Spencer just behind him, and out the front door right into the middle of an argument.

There are five people gathered around the front steps: both Ways, Toro, and two women. The women are dressed in rough trousers and shirts like men; one of them is scowling while the other one is shouting.

" - hell kind of trouble are you bringing to this village, Way?" she demands, stepping forward. Lord Way steps back quickly. "Do you think you can step in _now_ and start fucking everything up after years of sticking your head in the fucking sand?"

"I'm not -"

"Did you think we wouldn't _notice_?" she goes on, shouting right over his reply. "Your friends come in - your _strangers_ \- and start interfering with our business -"

"I didn't know you were in the business of smuggling slaves," says Toro, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at the woman.

None of them notices Brendon, Ryan and Spencer in the doorway. Brendon squints in the sunlight and doesn't say anything yet.

Toro's significantly taller than the woman, but she isn't cowed. "You don't know a damn fucking thing about our business, Toro. You're just as clueless as these idiots."

"So you do smuggle slaves," says Lord Way, deeply unimpressed. "I thought you were better than that, Jamia."

The two women exchange a quick glance. "No," the woman - Jamia - says after a long moment. "We don't. It's bad business and attracts too much fucking attention."

"But you trade with people who do," says Toro. "What the fuck, Jamia? I sent those guys to you because I thought you'd want _help_ getting the fucking slavers out of your territory, not so you could turn them over to the bastards."

"We don't trade with them," she insists sharply. "Not usually."

The other woman adds, "Half our trading partners are dead from plague. These guys showed up on the usual run, two days ago. We don't know them. We don't want anything else to do with them."

Toro looks confused, and angry. "You don't know them, but you told Walker and Conrad how to find them?"

"We don't know _them_ either," says Jamia. "All we know is that they look a hell of a lot like a couple of men your army is offering a pretty price to bring in. The faster they get dragged out of this village, the better." At Toro's surprised look, she laughs. "You didn't know that? Did you know that, Way? That your new friends are a couple of dangerous fugitives? Anything else you're hiding?"

Of course that's when Lord Way looks over at Brendon by the front door. Brendon steps forward; one of them, he can't tell if it's Ryan or Spencer, touches the small of his back briefly. He clears his throat and asks, "What happened to Jon and Tom? Where are they?"  
Nobody answers at first. The women are eyeing him speculatively, and Brendon tries to sound like he has every right to ask when he repeats, "Where are they?"

"We don't know," Way says finally. He turns to glare at the women. "Well, _we_ don't know. Jamia and Lyn know damn well, but they won't tell us."

Brendon turns to face the women and takes a few steps down. "Where are they? What happened to them?" This isn't what he expected - he thought it would be Toro, the army, that kind of trouble, not these - whoever they are. His voice shakes only a little bit when he demands, "Tell us what happened."

"Who the hell are you?" Jamia asks.

Before Brendon can answer, Ryan steps around him and says to her, "You're the smugglers."

Brendon opens his mouth to ask - _smugglers? what the hell_? - but he notices that neither Way nor Toro look surprised.

"Who are you?" Jamia asks again, eyeing Ryan warily. "What the fuck is going on?"

Ryan ignores her question. "You're slave traders," he says flatly.

"No," snaps the other woman, Lyn. "We told you -"

"If you trade with slavers, you're no better than they are," says Ryan. He takes a step forward and he looks - he looks like nothing Brendon has seen before, haughty and brittle and sharp all over. His hands are in fists at his sides but his voice isn't shaking, and Brendon knows - things Spencer has said, things Brendon's picked up - he _knows_ there was a time when Ryan was a proper landowner's son, and maybe it wasn't a large plantation but it was big enough to own several slaves and hunting dogs and horses, big enough that the owner's son had some power. Some _control_. Brendon has always known, since he first saw Ryan in the caravan, but he's never seen it so plainly as he does now. He wonders if Ryan has forgotten until now too.

The women say something that Brendon misses, and Ryan's expression turns angry, unimpressed. "What do you think is going to happen when your _trading partners_ -" he spits the words out as though they taste bad, " - hand them over to the army for the bounty?"

"I imagine they'll get paid very well," says Jamia smoothly. "I don't like doing business with the army, but I can understand the appeal of a fat reward."

Ryan's mouth twists in amusement and, okay, Brendon has no fucking idea what he's doing - he's not the only one scrambling to catch up, he realizes, looking at the others - but Ryan is still talking. "And that will be the end of it?" he asks. "The army won't ask any questions?"

"The army is standing right here," Toro says dryly.

Jamia waves one hand dismissively. "You don't count. If you were going to shut us down you would have done it years ago. Is that how it is, kid?"

Understanding dawns, and Brendon jumps in. "You turned them over to your slave-trading friends. That's illegal in this province."

"If you got money for it, it's a hanging offense," Toro adds pointedly. "It's a much bigger crime on this side of the border than smuggling food and liquor."

Ryan says, "I doubt the army is going to care if you tell them you're not smuggling people."

The two women exchange glances again. It's Lyn who says, "Who the fuck are those men? We saw the bulletin. It said they're dangerous and armed and wanted for 'questioning with regard to subversive activities.' What we do here, we're just penny-ante thieves, but that's fucking _conspiracy_ , Toro."

Brendon starts to ask, "What -"

But Lord Way speaks over him, loudly: "Tell us where they are."

Everybody swivels to look at him. "What?" Jamia asks.

"That's all," Way says. "Just tell us where they are. And you can go back to being - being _smugglers_ or whatever the hell you do. You can pretend like you never saw them."

"Gerard," says Toro slowly. "What are you doing? Those men are fugitives, and you know what a conspiracy charge means."

Lord Way smiles crookedly. "Yeah. I know."

"We looked it up," says Mikey. "There's a lot of precedent." Brendon had almost forgotten he's there, he hasn't said a word, but he crosses his arms and stands next to his brother and goes on, "You know they don't even need proof? All they have to do is point and say, 'That guy right there, he's in a secret organization plotting against the crown.'"

"And that's it," says Lord Way. "Lock you up and throw away the key."

"Or worse," Mikey says.

"Shit, guys," breathes Toro.

Because - Brendon understands it all at once - because they already _know_. The Way brothers, for all that they act like they wouldn't notice a herd of elephants galloping through their dining room, they signed up for this. They met with people in the Cobra, they agreed to join, they opened their house and put their names and reputations and _everything_ on the line. They didn't fall into it backwards, not like Brendon and Ryan and Spencer did. They're doing it on purpose, because they want to. Because they think it's right. They've known all along what it means.

"So, what," Jamia says, breaking the brief silence. "You want to launch a daring rescue? _You_?"

"Yes," Ryan says without hesitation. "That's what we're going to do."

"They're our allies now," says Lord Way. And, fuck, he doesn't just sound certain, he sounds _proud_. Proud, even though he's basically just admitted to being part of a subversive conspiracy right in front of a military officer. He looks straight at Toro, unflinching.

"What the hell," says Lyn. She laughs a little, a grim, unamused sound. "I don't know what the fuck you've gotten yourselves into. I don't want to know. It'll probably get you killed soon enough. But I really fucking hate doing business with slavers."

"So tell us where they are," says Lord Way.

"We don't know where they are," Jamia says. "They moved all their property - all the slaves out of the barn last night, probably right after they grabbed your new _allies_. But..." She looks at Lyn, and there's a long silence, and then both of them turn together and stare directly into the forest. Brendon follows their gazes but he can't see anything except the mottled pattern of shadow and sunlight and maybe - for a brief second he thinks he sees something move, but it's gone. Whatever the women see, however, seems to satisfy Jamia. "But we can find out," she says. "I hope you have a plan."

Brendon looks at Ryan, who turns to look at Spencer. They don't say a thing, but Brendon can see them come to a decision. "We will," Spencer says quietly, for Ryan and Brendon's ears only. "We'll - we'll figure something out."

Brendon nods. "Yeah."

"We will," says Toro. "Once we know what we're dealing with."

Brendon whirls around to stare at him, and Ryan and Spencer do the same. "What?" Brendon blurts out. "You're - no, you can't -"

"We don't need your help," says Ryan. "We don't need the army."

Spencer doesn't say anything, but Brendon can practically feel him vibrating with tension.

"Look, I still don't really know what's going on here," Toro says, exasperated. "I've got some pretty good guesses, and you -" He points at the Way brothers. " - are going to explain every fucking thing when we get this sorted out. But I didn't mean to turn _anybody_ over to a group of slavers. Not even fugitives deserve that. So, Jamia? Lyn? You're going to tell us where the fuck we have to go, and you're going to help us get there."

Jamia makes a face. "Who the hell put you in charge?" When Toro only stares at her, she sighs. "Fine. We'll know by -" Another quick glance into the forest. "By nightfall, I think. Those bastards can't have gone far."

_

 **  
_xxi._   
**

Jon can't see anything.

It takes a few minutes, he's still a little groggy from being whacked over the fucking head, but he finally realizes it's because there's something over his eyes. He tries to reach up to pull it away, and that's when he realizes that his hands are bound. Feet, too, although he can stretch out his legs - not all the way. There are bars in the way. Cold, metal bars, and he feels along with his bare feet - the fuckers took his boots - along the width of the cage. It's really fucking small.

"Fuck," he mutters.

Beside him, a few feet away, there's a low laugh. "You can say that again."

Jon exhales with sharp relief. "Tom."

"How'd you guess?"

"I can smell you, man. I'd recognize that stench anywhere."

"Hey, Jon? I think we got captured."

"Yeah? Shit, I never would've guessed."

"Sad but true. I know the signs."

"This is why you're the brains of the operation."

"Always have been," Tom agrees.

"Then how did we get caught again?"

"Bad fucking luck."

Jon can't exactly argue with that. He doesn't know if Toro set them up or the lady blacksmith did that on her own, or if both of them were taken in as much as he and Tom were, but right here, blindfolded and locked in a fucking cage, it doesn't much matter. He and Tom let their guard down, that's what matters, and they're caught. The slavers, obviously. Farmers don't generally have iron cages handily available for the capture and transport of valuable fugitives.

He draws his legs up to get some leverage - fucking _small_ cage, maybe even child-size, he bumps his head on the top just sitting upright - and starts to shift around, feeling with his feet and his bound hands behind his back. The cage is solid, no loose or rusted bars, no weaknesses that he can find. They're in a cellar, maybe. The room has a damp, earthy smell to it, beneath the more pungent odor of too many bodies kept in too little space. He can't hear voices or breathing; there's nobody else down here now, just him and Tom.

"Anything?" says Tom. From the sounds to his left, Jon knows Tom is checking his cage in the same way.

"Fucking hell," Jon says in reply. He gives up and leans against the bars, and a moment later Tom leans on the other side. The touch of his shoulder against Tom's is reassuring, even with the metal bars between them. "It's been a while since we've been locked up like this," he says after a moment. They'd both been stupid kids then, before they'd found the Cobra, trying to do everything on their own. Back when they hadn't been trying to rescue nameless slaves from countless caravans, but just one. They'd only been looking for one.

Tom makes a noise almost like a laugh. "I forgot how fucking uncomfortable it is."

"Hey, remember -"

There are footsteps overhead. Jon breaks off, instinctively looking up even though he can't see anything. He feels dust fall from the ceiling as footsteps cross overhead - two sets, heavy and slow, nobody's in a hurry - and on the far side of the room a door creaks open. More footsteps, coming down a set of stairs.

Moments later Jon sees a faint light around the edge of the blindfold. A candle or a lamp, something unsteady and flickering, not daylight.

"Hello, lads," a voice says. "Having a nice evening?"

"Fantastic," says Jon.

"Fuck off," says Tom.

"Now, don't be like that," the man says. "We're all happy to be here. Aren't you happy they're here?"

"I know I am," another voice says. "The crown's offering a nice little prize for your heads. What'd you do, fuck a nobleman's wife?"

"Right after I finished with yours," Tom drawls. "And I gotta say -"

There's a crash and loud metallic clank. Jon starts, then realizes one of the men has kicked the cage and rattled something metal - a gun, a knife, something - against it, that's all. "Watch your fucking mouth, kid, or I'll cut your fucking tongue out," he says. "Nobody's offering a reward for your tongue."

The other one says, "It'd be a pity to do that before we give him a chance to talk."

That one is farther away. Jon tries to guess the distance: six, eight feet, probably behind his friend, who is standing right in front of Tom's cage.

Not that it matters, he thinks, frustrated. He can't see a fucking thing, can't get his hands free, can't do anything except listen and hope the slavers do something stupid or give something away.

"It would be a pity," one man says. "See, we've got some questions. Starting with what the fuck kind of operation you and those bitch smugglers are running."

"Never met them before," Jon says. Questions, questions are good. Questions mean talking, talking means time. "We thought they were with you."

"You expect us to believe that? Do you think we're stupid?"

"Well, since you ask, _stupid_ is being a little generous, maybe -" Tom begins.

The man slams the gun into the cage again. "Shut up, asshole. Now, let's try this again. What have you got going here? Nice little ring in the village, a lord too fucking stupid to notice anything's going on, so what is it? What's the big game?"

"We have no idea," Jon says. But it is starting to make sense. Apparently the slave smugglers in the area thought the same thing as Saporta did when he picked this place. Sleepy little out-of-the-way village where nobody pays much attention to anything, negligent noblemen who barely leave their estate: a perfect place to hide a secret operation.

The problem is that neither the slavers nor Saporta realized there was already a secret operation in place.

It's almost funny, Jon thinks. Funny enough that next time they meet he's going to punch Saporta in his fucking face for sending them into this shit blind.

Tom says, "You're the criminal mastermind here, asshole. You tell us."

"Shut up! I'll tell you what I fucking want to tell you." The man is getting agitated, pacing in front of the cages, rattling his pistol along the bars every few steps. "Who's got an eye on this place? Who runs that little whore blacksmith?"

"Didn't your mother ever teach you not to talk about a lady like that?" Tom asks. "If you ever knew your mother, I mean, I can't imagine -"

"You _shut up_!"

"Hey, man, calm down," the other man says. "The fucker's just mouthing off, trying to rile you up."

"Well, I'm fucking riled." The cage shakes, and Jon hears the distinctive sound of the pistol being cocked. "You got that, cocksucker? This is our fucking operation and our fucking game and I'm fucking riled, and I'm ready for you to fucking -"

"Sorry, man," Tom says, "you're not my -"

The shot is deafening, the flash bright enough that Jon sees spots behind his blindfold, and something hot and wet splatters on his face and that's not - that's not - both men are shouting now, the words are a roar in his ears, he can't make them out, just a fucking roar, a fucking _shot_ and the men are shouting but Tom isn't - Tom isn't -

"What the fuck did you do that for?" one man shouts.

He's fucking _right there,_ Tom's right there, not saying anything, there's something warm on Jon's shoulder, his arms, warm and wet, he jerks away but there's no place to go, no fucking room, and Tom is _right there_ -

"You think we can get the fucking bounty for a corpse?" the man asks angrily.

The other sounds bored now, all his rage gone. "He wasn't worth that much anyway, and I was getting tired of his fucking mouth."

 _No_ , thinks Jon stupidly. _No no no no no no no._

Of course it doesn't matter what he thinks.

"You all right there, man?" says one of the smugglers, mock-solicitous. "Hey, you've got something on your face, let me get that for you –" Rough fingers brush the cooling wet splatter by Jon's ear gently. Jon cringes away from the touch. "Oops," says the man gleefully. "Guess that was kind of messy, wasn't it? Your friend's brains got _everywhere_ –"

Jon jerks and snarls and hits his head on the top of the tiny fucking cage and _no_ , no, he's kind of dizzy but he shakes his head furiously, trying to dislodge the blindfold, because if he can see he'll be able to see that they're lying, they made a mistake, something, the guy's such a fucking awful shot that no, of course he couldn't hit _one man_ when he was _tied up_ and _blindfolded_ at fucking _point-blank range_ –

The smuggler bursts out laughing.

"You're kind of sick, man," mutters his friend.

"Hey, at least I don't try to fuck the goods," retorts the other one. It sounds like an old argument; the friend snorts. "And, you know, maybe this one feels more like talking now. How about it, Jonathan Walker? That's your name, isn't it? Can we call you Jonny?" There's a rattle, metal against metal, and a moment later something hard and smooth and polished is pressed against Jon's jawbone, forcing his head up as far as it'll go.

 _Pistol_ , Jon thinks hopelessly. The barrel's still warm from the last shot. He can see a thin slit of light under the bottom of the blindfold.

" _Now_ do you want to tell us a little more about those filthy little bitches?" says the man, and he shoves with the weapon.

Jon overbalances and falls back, and he can't catch himself, feels his bound wrists twist behind him against the metal floor of the cage. "You bastards," he says, and he doesn't know what's happened to his voice, what's made it sound so low and strained and unrecognizable. "You _motherfucking_ sons of _bitches_. I told you we don't know –" The pistol jerks under his chin, slamming into his jaw, and he feels his teeth rattle. "I don't _know_!" he says again, and his voice cracks at the end, turns into a yelp. "I don't – you killed him, you killed him, motherfuckers, you killed him, you fucking murderers, you _killed_ , you killed him –"

His breath is hitching on every other word, and the smuggler who isn't holding the pistol by his throat makes a disgusted noise and says, "Crap, that's pathetic. He really doesn't know anything."

"You killed him," says Jon again, a sick awful whisper, and the blindfold's getting wet, fuck, he's crying. "You killed him."

"That's right," the man with the pistol says, pulling it away from Jon's jaw. "Bit slow, aren't you?"

Jon hears a rustling sound that might be a gun being holstered. They can't get anything from him anymore. They don't care about him anymore. But - "I'll find you," he says, snarls, though his throat is choked. "I'll remember you, I'll find you, fuckers, I'll make you fucking well _pay_ –"

"Huh, maybe we should –" says the man.

"Don't be a fucking moron," says the other. "We can kill him now, or we can give him to the crown and _they_ kill him and pay us for the pleasure. He doesn't even know what we look like."

"What if he doesn't shut up? What if somebody hears –"

"Hell, there's nobody around to hear. But we can drug him again if you're so scared."

"I'm not _scared_ ," the man says scornfully. "But yeah, I say another dose of chloroform."

The blindfold slips when one of them grabs Jon's collar and drags him forward. He's barely got time to blink away the dizziness and the tears before the other one claps a soaked handful of rags across his mouth and nose, and then the world is fading in a sickly-sweet haze. Distantly, he hears one man say, "What are we going to do about _him_?" and the other answer, "Eh, leave him there for now. If Jonny here wakes up he can use the company." And then both of them are laughing and his vision is going dark. The last thing he's aware of is the cage next to his and the body slumped against the bars only a few inches away, tilted towards him: the blindfold still covering most of Tom's face, the gaping red hole in his forehead.

[Chapter Ten](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/3292.html)


	11. But Not the Song (10/17)

_  
**But Not the Song (10/17)**   
_   
[Story Index and Warnings](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/446.html)

[Chapter Nine](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/2980.html)

  
**  
_xxii._   
**

There are seven of them in all: Spencer and Ryan, Lord Way and Toro, and the two women from earlier who have been joined by a third, a silent, dark-eyed figure who melted noiselessly out of the trees once they'd left the Way estate. Brendon couldn't come with them, of course. Way's brother had shaken his head and said, "You shouldn't go either, Gee. This is subterfuge stuff. Stick to what you're good at."

"What the hell am I good at?" Lord Way had said. "I want to save lives, Mikey. I want to _help._ "

"We can use your name if nothing else," the woman Lyn had said, soft and sharp. "They can do what they like to us, but they'll think twice before hurting Lord Way."

Mikey, about to argue, shut his mouth instead, teeth clenching. Toro looked close to disagreeing as well, but he was silenced by a glare from Lord Way, who'd gone to stand with the women, arms folded. "All right," he'd said instead. "Okay, Gee, but things could get nasty."

"I know that," Lord Way had said, stubborn.

It's after sunset and they're walking along the twisted, forested road to the village, the women and Toro leading, Ryan and Way walking close behind; they seem to be talking about something, though Spencer has no idea what it is. Well, Way's talking, but Ryan's silence is the _I'm listening_ silence, not the _you're boring as fuck_ silence.

He needs to stop paying so much attention to everything Ryan does. Ryan's not his responsibility any more.

Spencer's bringing up the rear, the rifle the Butcher gave him a comforting weight in his hands. The forest is full of dark, flickering shapes - _bats_ , said Way - and he doesn't like it. They spent the entire day waiting - worrying - for the women to return with news, and he's glad to be moving again, _doing_ something. But he wishes he had a better idea what they're going to do when they find the slavers.

After conversing in earnest, quiet tones with the blacksmith - Jamia? - Toro drops back to walk beside him. Spencer nods to him awkwardly. Toro's not wearing a uniform or anything, and he's not from the right part of the country to have heard about what Spencer and Brendon did. There's no way he can know unless one of them gives it away. But it doesn't matter if he can't know. Toro's still probably the person Spencer wants to talk to least.

"You know how to use that thing?" says Toro, nodding at the rifle.

"Yeah," says Spencer shortly.

Toro nods. "If it comes to actual fighting - which I'm really hoping it won't - it might be a little unwieldy. How are you with a handgun?"

Weeks ago - it feels like years, the memory dreamlike - Spencer stole a pistol from a soldier and then walked till Jon found him, and that was the first time he'd ever held a gun. He thinks of turning it over in his hands, later, on the road, finding the letters and numbers engraved on the barrel and spelling them out in his head like Ryan taught him years and years ago: _5503 Kirk's 12 th Col. Marling._ He still doesn't know what the number meant: maybe it was supposed to identify the soldier he stole it from.

"Never fired one," he says.

Toro nods again. "Well, you're still a better bet than any of the others. Gerard couldn't hit the broad side of a barn at twenty paces, your friend won't look at me, and I'm not sure I trust the girls at the moment." He carries two revolvers at his belt. He draws one and reverses it, holding it out to Spencer by the barrel. Spencer shifts the rifle to one hand and takes it, his fingers closing around the grip like they were meant to be there. He turns it over, looking at it, and there it is: _661 Royal 15 th Col. Gough._ Military issue.

"It's more use for self-defense than anything else," Toro's saying. "You've got twelve shots. Don't waste them on anything more than fifty yards away. And don't use it unless you have to."

"Right," says Spencer. The feel of the weapon in his hand is satisfying, even exciting, something like proof. He doesn't quite know what the expression on his face is as he tucks it into his belt, but he guesses it's maybe kind of wolfish, because when he looks up Toro's eyes widen and he swears under his breath.

" _Fuck._ Okay," he says. "I'll be counting on you for backup if this turns sour." He moves to touch Spencer's shoulder, then apparently thinks the better of it, shaking his head. It's only a small gesture, but his wild hair flies in every direction, exaggerating the motion. "I'm gonna go talk to Gerard, see if I can get him to change his mind and go home," he says.

"We might need him," says Spencer.

Toro looks frustrated. "I seriously doubt the slavers are going to pay any attention to what the local lord of the manor has to say, especially not when it's _Gee._ "

"Slavers pay attention to whoever has money. They've got something to sell." Spencer shrugs. "Nothing else matters, not to them."

" _God_ ," says Toro.

Spencer blinks.

"What the hell happened to you? No, no, don't answer that," he says quickly, clearly annoyed. "Be ready. I really don't like any of this. I don't like it at all."

The slavers, according to Jamia and Lyn's information, have set up camp on an old farm a couple of miles outside of the village. "It's just on this side of the border," Lyn had said, when they returned to the manor in the afternoon. "I guess they know it's not patrolled well enough for them to get caught."

And Jamia had snorted and said, "Yeah, well, it's easy to get away with illegal trading when his lordship doesn't pay attention to what's going on."

The old farm is in a valley at the end of a winding narrow track. They stop at the crest of the hill before descending. The forest is alive around them, filled with the sound of insects and a light breeze through the trees. A full day, Spencer thinks, suppressing a shiver. Jon and Tom have been gone for a full day.

In the starlight, he can make out the buildings on the farm below: a house, a barn, some smaller outbuildings, all clustered around a round corral. There's a large campfire between the barn and corral, its leaping, flickering flames casting off enough light that Spencer can see the armed men pacing around the barn, and a single man sitting on a barrel outside the front door of the house. There's no light through the windows of the house.

"The slaves are in the barn," he says. His face grows hot when the others turn to look at him. They didn't ask, after all. They don't need his advice.

"Your friends might be in with them," says Toro, scanning the farm thoughtfully.

Spencer shakes his head and points. "They're keeping somebody apart in that house there."

Jamia crosses her arms and leans against a tree. She's looking at Spencer rather than the farm below, but in the shadows he sees only her relaxed posture and the darkness of her eyes. "You spend a lot of time watching slavers' camps?"

Spencer opens his mouth to reply but he can't think of anything that won't give them away, and the silence stretches awkwardly until Ryan speaks up, "It's our job," he says. He looks at Spencer as he talks. "They all work about the same way anyway."

It's easier to think it through when he's just talking to Ryan. Spencer says, "We'll have to distract the guard by the door."

"They'll recognize us," says Lyn. "You'll have to do that."

Ryan starts to nod, then he stops and turns to face Lord Way. " _You'll_ have to do that. It's okay if they recognize you."

"Me?" Way looks surprised, but more curious than frightened. "What do you want me to do?"

"Talk to them," says Ryan firmly, without hesitation. "Hint that you're interested in what they have to offer, but don't say anything outright. Say you heard about new business opportunities and wanted to see for yourself what's going on. Play along, but don't look too interested, they'll know that you know it's illegal for them to be here, and that'll just make them suspicious." He sounds like he's completely forgotten that he's talking to a nobleman, and it's the first thing Spencer's seen in a long time that makes him want to smile. "You have to -"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Toro holds up his hands. "Gerard doesn't know the first thing about buying slaves. They'll see through him as soon as he opens his mouth."

"I can do it," says Lord Way stubbornly. "I just have to talk to them, right? I can do that. Ryan can pretend to be my steward or man of business or whatever the hell I'm supposed to have. He'll stop me from saying anything stupid."

Ryan's eyes go wide with surprise. "I - I don't think -"

"That might work," Toro says skeptically. "But _only_ talk to them, Gee. Just distract them enough so we can get into the house without anybody noticing. Don't do anything else. _Nothing_ , okay?"

As Toro and the women pick out the best way to get down to the house without being seen, Ryan steps over and stands next to Spencer for a long, silent moment.

"You'll be fine," Spencer says. "You can - you'll be fine."

Ryan looks pale, but he nods. "Kind of backwards, though, isn't it?" He's speaking low enough that only Spencer can hear. They're the first words he's said to Spencer, only for Spencer, since that morning.

It takes Spencer a second, then he has to bite his lip to keep a startled, hysterical laugh from escaping. After so many years of trying - and _failing_ , fuck, always failing - to escape from slave camps, here they are, trying to sneak back into one. "Maybe we'll be better at doing it this way than we were the other way around."

Ryan doesn't answer. He just looks at Spencer, his gaze steady and searching, and he turns away without a word when the others are ready. Spencer thinks _good luck_ , but he doesn't say it out loud. He readjusts his grip on his rifle and follows Toro into the forest.

It takes them about ten minutes to scramble around the dark rim of the valley to a spot that's almost directly opposite the little house. Spencer shifts the weight of the rifle in his hands and stares down at the farm buildings laid out before them, trying to memorize the shape of them - trying to catch a glimpse of Ryan. There's a fence between them and the farm proper, but it's low and it's not guarded. It looks climbable. They're actually going to do this.

"Right," says Jamia. "You need to wait until Way and your boy get that distraction going, then you go in. I'd suggest being fast."

"What?" says Toro. "Aren't you coming?"

Jamia folds her arms. "The more of us there are the less safe it is. And it's not our problem anyway. Lyn and I are staying here."

"Lyn and you -"

"I'm coming with you," interrupts the third woman. Spencer had almost forgotten about her; she hasn't said a word all evening, and all the way from the manor she followed at a distance, blending in and out of the trees silently. He watches her out of the corner of his eye, most of his attention still on the slave camp.

"Alicia -" begins Jamia.

"I'm more use to you than those two," says Alicia with a grin like a knife. In the faint starlight, it's luminous. "I fight."

"We all fight," mutters Lyn.

"Not like me," says Alicia, with the calm certainty of someone who knows she's telling the truth, and Lyn and Jamia don't argue. She comes to stand beside Spencer. He tenses up when she gets close, but she just laughs softly beside his ear. "Eyes on the money, mister," she says. "We wait until they give us an opening."

Spencer glances involuntarily at Toro, and then remembers he doesn't trust him either.

Ryan and Way must be talking to the slavers by now, trying to sell them on Ryan's story, and Spencer wishes he could see, but they're either inside or hidden by the buildings. After a few moments Alicia sucks in her breath and murmurs, "There, there's our cue."

When Spencer looks back at the farm he can't see anything. "What?" he whispers.

"The guards are moving," says Alicia.

Suddenly there's sound: the distant creak of doors being unbarred and opened, and yelling. Toro takes a couple of steps forward. "Slaves," he says. "They're bringing out some slaves. I guess Ross did it."

"Who says it wasn't Lord Way?" asks Lyn.

Toro snorts.

"It was Ryan," agrees Spencer.

"And we go in," says Toro.

"Nuh-uh," says Alicia. "Not 'we'. _You're_ about as unobtrusive as an angry bear. It's me and the kid here going." She touches Spencer's arm. "Straight on down, here we go."

Spencer hesitates before he follows her, but - even if Jon weren't, if he didn't have to - Ryan's in there now. Ryan went in there for Jon, so he can do it too.

The scrabbling descent takes only a few minutes. Well, he's scrabbling; Alicia navigates the barely-there trail like it's a wide, easy road. Spencer thinks she must do things like this often, that smugglers must need people who know how to be sneaky. When they reach the fence, she hauls herself up and over it without hesitation and says softly, "Give me the rifle first."

Spencer hesitates before he throws it over to her, but she catches it easily and waits for him. He winces at the soft thud his feet make when he lands on the other side of the fence, but she just shakes her head and hands the gun back to him. "Stay close behind me," she says. "You're here to shoot things if anything needs shooting."

Spencer's stomach tightens, but he nods.

Between the farm buildings he can see the corral. He can't see the careful alterations they've made now that it's meant to contain human livestock and not cattle, but he can guess. He's seen the same thing in dozens of places while he and Ryan were moving from caravan to owner to caravan. There's no sign of Ryan or Way, but he can hear footsteps, shouting: a whip cracks and he can't control himself, can't hold back the automatic flinch.

Alicia ignores him. Her lips move a little as she watches the corral: _come on, come on._ And then someone says, loudly, "If you're sure, mister, here's something worth looking at."

He hears Way's voice answer, loud and nervous, "I'm an artist, you know, a poet. I need to, the Muse requires, that I consider _life._ " He sounds like a stupid lord. A really, incredibly stupid lord.

"This is life!" answers the slaver. Spencer can almost hear the smirk, and he imagines Ryan rolling his eyes right now, looking straight at the man, pretending to share the joke.

And then there's jeering and applause, the slavers' guards are gathering around the corral, leaning on the bars with all their attention on the patch of ground inside the fence. Some men have brought out torches, casting a brilliant red and orange light over everything. Someone yells, "Here they are!" and someone else says, "Twenty on Frankie, that crazy little fucker!" and Spencer thinks, _gladiators._

"And that's our distraction," says Alicia. "Follow me."

She stops and peers around the corner of the house, one quick look before pulling back. She glances back at Spencer and nods, then slips around the corner.

The man guarding the door is no longer in position. Like all the others, he's standing at the fence, watching the fight about to begin. Through the fence Spencer catches a glimpse of bare tattooed skin, men circling each other slowly, a guard unfurling a long whip.

But he doesn't stop. If anybody turns around, they'll see him and Alicia, but Alicia is at the door to the house and pushing it open. Spencer follows on her heels and closes the door quietly behind him. Inside it's pitch-black, but there's a soft scrape and a match flares in Alicia's hand. She pulls a stub of candle out of her pocket and goes through the house quickly, Spencer following close behind. It's not a big house, and it takes them only a few moments to see that there's no one else inside. There is, however, a door barred and locked with a padlock at the back of the house, and a ring of keys on a hook beside it.

"Looks like they've got something in here they don't want getting out." Alicia hands the candle to Spencer and picks up the ring to try the keys in the lock. One of them clicks, and she slides the lock free, opens the door.

The stairway down to the cellar is dark, and the damp air smells like sweat and mud and - _blood._ Alicia takes the candle back and goes first, one hand resting on the knife at her belt. Spencer takes a deep breath and follows.

When Alicia reaches the bottom, she mutters a very distinct, "Oh, _fuck._ "

Spencer runs down the last few steps so fast he nearly trips. The smell of blood is sharper in the cellar, and the candlelight is barely enough to see by. But it's enough to see the rows of cages lining the narrow room. Most of them are empty.

But not all of them. Spencer sees bent knees and bare feet, crammed side-by-side into cages probably meant for child slaves rather than grown men.

"Jon!" Spencer darts around Alicia, dropping his rifle, and falls to his knees in front of the cage. "Jon, Tom are you -" Alicia steps closer and Spencer's eyes adjust well enough to see the pool of blood on the bottom of the cages, the blindfold over Tom's face and bullet hole in his forehead. Alicia says something behind him but the words don't register. Spencer reaches through the bars; there's blood on Jon, soaking through his shirt. "Fuck. Motherfucking _fuck_ , Jon, Jon, are you, wake the fuck _up_ -"

Jon groans softly, and he lifts his head slightly. Relief slams into Spencer so hard he can't breathe for a moment.

"Don't know," says Jon, his voice slow and thick. "Don't..."

Spencer shakes him. "Jon, come on, wake the fuck up."

"Don't - who?" Jon's eyelids flutter rapidly, and he struggles to sit up. "Spencer? Fuck, what the fuck are you doing here? Did they -"

"No, no, hey, they didn't. We came to get you - what?"

Alicia taps on his shoulder. She's got the rifle now. "Key. Hurry."

Spencer takes the key ring from her and starts trying each key in the lock. "We came to get you," he says again. Jon is staring at him a little groggily, like he can't quite focus. "Are you hurt? Are you okay?" He winces as soon as he says it. _Hurt,_ fuck, Tom's _dead,_ he's fucking dead, and Jon's right next to him, there's no fucking way he's _okay,_ and - " _Fuck_ , there." The lock clicks. Spencer pulls the cage open, reaches in and hauls Jon out.

"They killed him," says Jon. "Tom. They -"

"I know," says Spencer. Jon's shirt is soaked through with blood, sticky and still warm, but it doesn't seem to be his. "Are you hurt?"

"We need to move," says Alicia.

Spencer glances up at her; her head is tilted to one side, listening. "What is that?" There's shouting outside. It's muffled and distant, but it's loud enough that Spencer can tell it's not the ordinary cheers of guards and slaves watching a gladiator fight.

"Trouble," says Alicia. "We have to go _now_."

"We're going," Spencer says. He hooks his arm under Jon's and stands up, drawing the pistol from his belt with his other hand and steering them toward the stairs. Jon stumbles a little but recovers quickly. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"They gave me something," Jon says. "Sorry, sorry, I'm - okay, okay now." He pulls away from Spencer and starts up the steps, but Alicia shoves by him and goes first. The shouting outside has grown louder. "Where are we?" Jon asks. "What the hell is that? _Who_ the hell is that?"

"Slave camp," Spencer says. He doesn't bother shutting the cellar door when they reach the top. "They're - it's fighting, gladiators, a distraction, come on, we have to -"

A gunshot sounds outside, and they all stop short just paces from the door. It doesn't sound like fighting anymore. It sounds like _rioting_ and, fuck, another gunshot - who the _hell_ are they shooting - Ryan is out there and that doesn't sound like a fucking distraction anymore.

Alicia snuffs out the candle and has one hand on the door when it bursts open. She dodges to the side as a man charges in. He's got a rifle in his hands and he's muttering to himself, distracted, "Stupid fucking _cunts_ , goddamn stupid - _What the fuck_?" He's right in front of them, three feet away, swinging his rifle up and cocking the hammer and Spencer doesn't -

He doesn't _think_. He sees the rifle and the man's face red and furious, and he doesn't think, he just shoves Jon to the side and raises Toro's pistol and cocks it and fires and - _shit_ , that hurts, that's all he can think, it's not like holding a rifle with both hands. His arm wrenches painfully and the man snaps back, staggering, still holding the fucking rifle, still _firing_ , and the wall over Spencer's head splinters.

Alicia springs forward and shoves the guard away from the door, toppling him toward Spencer and slamming the door shut. Spencer doesn't move out of the way fast enough - the man is falling, he's fucking falling and he shot him and he's _falling_ , blood blooming dark on his shirt, and Spencer doesn't move out the way fast enough. The man slumps against him and he's - he's coughing, blood on his lips, and he's -

"Come _on_." Alicia grabs Spencer's arm with her free hand and pulls him away from the door, Jon stumbling after him. The guard falls to the floor with a heavy thump.

Jon begins, "But -"

"Window in the back," she says, and there is, right by the doorway to the cellar. Alicia hits the window with the butt of the rifle and the glass shatters; she knocks away the jagged edges and says, "Over the fence and into the woods and fucking _run._ "

Jon goes first and he stumbles when he hits the ground, but he recovers quickly and runs, not stopping to look behind him. Spencer follows, sprinting after him, and Alicia is just behind him. They scale the fence and there's shouting behind them.

Spencer stops and turns around as soon as they hit the treeline, but Alicia is there, tugging him along. "Not now," she snaps. "Keep moving, get the fuck out of sight."

"But they're -" There's nobody following. The shouting isn't for them.

" _Out of sight_ , boy, now."

"But Ryan -"

" _Now._ "

About fifty yards into the woods they run into Toro and Lyn. "What the fuck is going on?" Alicia demands. "If that's Way's idea of a fucking distraction -"

"Believe it or not, that wasn't him," says Toro. "We were watching. The slaves they put in the ring - for the fighting, they decided to go after the guards rather than fighting each other."

"Then a few others got the same idea," says Lyn. She holds up one hand, fingers splayed. "And boom. Chaos."

Chaos. Fucking riot. The gunshots, the shouts, and that never ends well, never _ever_ ends well. Spencer takes a few steps back down the hill. "But Ryan and - and, they're still - we have to -"

"Hey, Smith, wait." Toro's hand closes around his upper arm. Spencer makes a startled noise and pulls away, and Toro lets him go abruptly. "Okay, look, Jamia went down to see what happened. You can't - you go down there now, it's not safe. Are you bleeding?"

Spencer looks down; he's still holding the handgun. He's got blood on his hands and on his shirt, but none of it his own. He shakes his head and cranes his head, trying to see through the trees toward the farm. The shouting is dying down - it always ends quickly, half-starved slaves versus armed guards - and they'll be getting things under control, locking people away again.

"We have to go," says Jon suddenly. "If they go into the house..."

Alicia nods. "Stay away from the road. They'll be looking for you - you, whatever your name is."

"He's Jon," says Spencer quietly. Jon has blood all over him too, on his shirt and neck and smeared across his face.

"Where's Conrad?" asks Toro.

Jon turns away and starts up the hill. "Dead."

Spencer knows they need to hurry, knows that if they find the guard - he didn't even think, he just _fired_ , oh fucking hell - they'll come after Jon. But he drags his feet anyway. He can't - he can't just fucking - not with Ryan still back there, in a camp full of slavers, there was fighting and shooting and where the fuck are they?

It's not that much long later, maybe ten minutes, when Jamia appears beside them. "No, don't stop, kid," she says. "Keep moving."

"Where are they?" asks Spencer. "What happened?"

"They're - god." She shakes her head in disbelief. "I don't know who had the stupid idea to get Gerard Way involved in some stupid plot, but as far as I can tell, they're still talking to the slavers, milking this thing for all it's fucking worth. What the hell is he trying to do, anyway? Never mind, I don't want to know. But they're unhurt, both of them. Alicia -"

"On it," Alicia says, and she vanishes into the woods.

"They'll catch up to us," says Jamia. "But you guys -"

"You're a little conspicuous," says Toro, eyeing the blood on their shirts and hands. "We'll stay away from the main road."

Spencer wants to argue, but he takes one look at Jon and keeps silent. Jon isn't looking at anything, he doesn't seem to be listening, and somebody needs to - Ryan is still undercover, still talking to the slavers, and he's not Spencer's responsibility anymore. He can handle himself. But somebody needs to look after Jon. Spencer touches Jon's shoulder lightly, the shoulder that's not covered with Tom's dried blood, and they start walking.

Dawn begins to lighten the eastern sky as they walk back toward the Way estate, and somewhere in the forest birds are waking up. It seems so much farther now than it had before, and they're about halfway back when Ryan, Lord Way and Alicia catch up to them. Lord Way starts talking to Toro immediately, gesturing excitedly as they walk, but Ryan steps right in front of Spencer and Jon.

"Are you hurt?" he demands. He looks from one to the other, taking in the blood on their skin and clothes. He reaches for Spencer first but withdraws his hand quickly, without touching. "Is that -"

"Not my blood," Spencer says.

Ryan nods once and turns to Jon. He puts his hand on Jon's shoulder and leans close to say something. Spencer doesn't listen, doesn't watch, doesn't wait to see if - he doesn't wait. He quickens his pace until he's walking just behind Lord Way.

" - tonight, that's what I told them," Way is saying, while Toro listens intently. "They didn't say but they're not planning on moving over the border until tomorrow, but if I can go back tonight..."

"What are you going to do?" Toro sounds tired and anxious.

"I have a plan," says Lord Way. "It's not crazy, Ray, I swear this can work..."

Spencer stops listening to them too.

"Was that your first?"

Spencer flinches; he hadn't noticed Alicia walking beside him. "First what?"

"First man you've killed."

Spencer stops breathing for a second. He just fired. He didn't even think. He's never even fired a handgun before. Toro's gun. He should give it back.

"If you hadn't, I would have," she says. She holds out Spencer's rifle, the one Butcher gave him. _For hunting_ , he thinks suddenly. He's slow taking it. Alica shakes her head and touches the hilt of the long knife at her belt. "That's how it happens."

And she slips into the woods, not even rustling the leaves as she disappears from sight.

When they finally reach the estate, Brendon and Mikey Way are sitting on the bottom of the steps in the entry hall. They both jump up when the door opens, and suddenly everybody seems to be talking at once. Spencer sees Ryan and Jon go upstairs, and all at once he feels too tired to climb the stairs. He doesn't want to follow them anyway.

"Hey," says Brendon. He's by Spencer's side, his face pale and drawn; he obviously hasn't slept. "You have -"

"Not my blood," Spencer says again.

"Okay." Brendon touches his arm gingerly. "You're not hurt?"

"No."

"What - where's -"

"They killed him," Spencer says. His voice cracks on the last word. "They shot him."

Brendon bites his lip and looks down, then turns and looks up the stairs toward where Ryan and Jon have gone. "Come on," he says, putting a hand on Spencer's arm. "Let's get you cleaned up, okay?"

Spencer follows him to the bedroom on the second floor, the one with the high ceiling and long windows that he knows without asking Ryan found for him. He stands awkwardly inside the door until Brendon tells him to sit. "I'll go get water," Brendon says, and he's gone through the door again, leaving Spencer on the edge of the bed. There's a window open and a breeze is stirring the curtains. They were probably very fine, once, but now they're tattered and faded like everything else in this house. Outside the window the forest is filled with birdsong, and a memory comes into his mind out of nowhere: his mother, teaching him to prune the roses in the Ross garden, telling him how in the quiet time before dawn, when everything is gray, they might be any color at all.

It's not Brendon who returns with water and clean rags, but Ryan. He comes in silently and sets the pitcher on the bedside table, sits down beside Spencer and takes Spencer's hands in his own.

"Not my blood," Spencer says. Third time, he thinks. Still true.

Ryan doesn't answer. He dips the cloth into the water and squeezes it out. He starts dabbing at the blood on Spencer's hands.

"I didn't even think," says Spencer.

Ryan looks up at him. His eyes are wide and sad, and he isn't - he isn't hiding, not now, there's no mask. He rinses the cloth, wrings it again, rubs it carefully over each of Spencer's fingers and along the inside of his wrist.

Spencer closes his eyes for a moment. "They killed Tom. He was in a cage, he couldn't go anywhere, and they - and we were running but I didn't even think. I just fired." He hears the soft noise of the cloth in water again, but Ryan lets go of his hands. Spencer grasps blindly without thinking about it, but he stops when he feels Ryan's fingers, cool and gentle, touch his face. "Alicia asked me if it was - do you remember that town in the north, that winter?" Of course Ryan remembers. It was only a few years ago, and even if the constant, gnawing pain of hunger and cold is gone now, the memory isn't. "There was never enough food," he says, but Ryan knows all this, he was there, right beside him, shivering while he shivered, starving while he starved. Always right there.

"I remember," says Ryan hoarsely.

His fingers are still on Spencer's face. Spencer leans into the touch. "I never told you - the guards, they made bets, they'd throw the bread into the ring and wager on who would be alive after -"

"I know," Ryan says. "I knew anyway. You didn't have to tell me."

Spencer opens his eyes then and Ryan is there, still watching him. "I felt - I still hate that," he says. "But this." He laughs a little. There's nothing funny about it, nothing at all, but the noise just slips out. "I shot him and I don't even fucking care."

Ryan says, "Spencer," and he licks his lips, leans forward a little, and Spencer thinks _what_ , he thinks _oh_ , and Ryan kisses him.

It's chaste at first, no more than a brush of lips. Ryan curls one hand around the back of Spencer's neck, cards the other softly through his hair, and then he pulls away. Spencer leans toward him without thinking, his heart racing and his hands trembling, but this is Ryan, Ryan watching him with something like hope in his eyes. He parts his lips as Ryan kisses him again, and again, slowly, the softest question.

"Ry," he breathes. He pulls Ryan close, wraps him in a tight hug and turns to press his face into Ryan's neck. "Are -"

"Later," Ryan murmurs, his voice a low vibration against Spencer's collarbone. "Okay? We'll - later."

"Okay." Spencer exhales slowly and sits back. He runs one hand up and down Ryan's arm, and Ryan shivers and looks down when Spencer brushes across the back of his neck. Spencer draws his hand back slowly. "We should - we should go take care of Jon," he says. He doesn't say, _his best friend was killed right beside him_ , and he doesn't say, _I think he needs you right now_ , but the surprise on Ryan face lasts only a moment.

Ryan nods and stands up, but he doesn't take his hand away from Spencer's shoulder. "We should get you a clean shirt," he says.

Spencer doesn't know who the shirt Ryan digs out of the room's one chest of drawers belongs to. It's thin and worn and soft-soft-soft, like it was maybe expensive once. He can feel Ryan's eyes on him as he pulls off the blood-ruined one, slips the new shirt over his head, and it's suddenly a strange feeling, like after all this time that gaze is enough to strip him bare. He glances over at Ryan afterwards and Ryan doesn't look away. That surprises him, somehow: he was expecting Ryan to look away. Ryan's always looked away before. But his eyes are on Spencer's face, his eyebrows drawn together, and there's a twist to the corner of his mouth that might, eventually, be a smile. He looks younger than usual, and softer. Spencer licks his lips. They're standing a good two feet apart.

Ryan hesitates for a second before he closes the space between them, and then his lips brush Spencer's again, just quickly. He steps back. "I - Jon," he says, and Spencer nods mutely, thinks _later, we'll talk later_ and _what about, I don't, oh my god_ and he's somehow got two fingers tucked against the dip of Ryan's collarbone, his other hand on Ryan's side. He can feel the slight movement of Ryan's ribcage as he breathes, and it's him who kisses Ryan this time. Ryan tilts his head and closes his eyes and lets him, wants him, welcomes him, lips parting, and the whole world, Spencer thinks breathlessly, is a little bit upside-down right now.

"Jon," he whispers when they break apart again, and Ryan nods seriously. His hand slips into Spencer's halfway up the stairs to the third floor, to the room they'd found for Jon yesterday. It's not until Ryan hesitates at the threshold that Spencer thinks, suddenly, that maybe he shouldn't be there, that it isn't him that Jon -

Ryan tugs him through the door.

Jon's alone. He's sitting on the bed, hunched over with his head resting on his forearms, his back to the door, his shoulders tight with tension, still in his bloodstained clothes. He smells of blood, too, the smell Spencer remembers from a thousand beatings: strong and nauseating and uncomfortably sweet. It's dark red on his skin and his clothes, drying or dried.

There's a pitcher of water on the bedside table, but it hasn't been touched.

"Don't," Jon says at the sound of their footsteps, without looking up. "Don't, Brendon, all right, just -"

Ryan makes a low sound in his throat and lets go of Spencer's hand, crossing the room so fast he might be flying, not even bothering to go around the bed. He just crawls up and settles himself there on his knees, both arms wrapping around Jon from behind. " _Jon_ ," he says, muffled because his mouth is in Jon's hair.

Spencer can't really see much of Jon anymore, but he can see how tightly Ryan is holding on, and he hears the choked noise that's startled out of him. Ryan turns and gives Spencer a demanding look over his shoulder, _come on_. As Spencer moves Ryan's pulling at Jon, tugging him backwards, forcing him to turn, until he's on his side on the bed with Ryan's arms wrapped around him, his face hidden in Ryan's neck. Ryan looks up at Spencer and there's so many things in his expression that Spencer can't read them all at once, but he recognizes _don't leave me_ in the set of Ryan's jaw, the spark in his eyes, so he doesn't.

Jon tenses up when Spencer lies down on his other side and slips his arms around him from behind. "It's okay," says Ryan softly, stroking his hair, "it's okay, Jon, it's us, it's Spencer and me, it's us," and he keeps saying it until Jon gasps, loudly, as if all the air's been forced out of him at once, and goes limp. Spencer crawls closer to him, lets his legs tangle with Jon's and Ryan's, presses his forehead against Jon's back between his shoulder blades and closes his eyes. But the stench of blood is too much and he has to open them again, remind himself where he is.

For a long time - Spencer doesn't know how long - everything's quiet. All he can hear is the three of them breathing: Jon's breaths ragged and irregular, Ryan's quiet and even, his own too loud in his ears.

After a while he realizes Jon's crying.

"Shh," Ryan murmurs, "shh," not really trying to hush him, Spencer thinks, just so there's a sound in the room apart from those quiet, helpless sobs.

Spencer tries to imagine losing Ryan. A small nasty voice in his head says _that's not the same at all._ He ignores it and holds Jon tighter. His hand by Jon's breastbone is pressed against Ryan's shoulder.

Eventually Jon makes a cut-off sound that's almost, not quite, a word, and Ryan responds instantly, pulls away a little and says, "Jon?" Jon's hands reach out for him, the first real movement he's made of his own accord, and Ryan instantly draws closer again. His eyes meet Spencer's over the top of Jon's head, but neither of them says anything.

Jon finally manages words, though they're muffled, spoken directly to Ryan's collarbone. He won't lift his head. "We were," he says. His voice is shaky and raw. "We both. We fell in love with the same girl." And as if that's the dam breaking, suddenly the story starts pouring out of him: " _Cassie._ She, she had these _eyes_ , she worked at the bar, she lived up, upstairs. We were both nuts about her." He makes a sound that might be a faint, miserable laugh. "We were crazy. We fought about it. We'd been best friends all our lives but we fought, and when she found out she yelled at us both. Called us idiots. Said she didn't want any man who started quarrels before he'd even _asked._ And she stuck to it, too. Tom and I - Tom and I - we made up, in the end." He falls silent.

Eventually Ryan says softly, "What happened?"

"There were slavers," whispers Jon. "Smugglers' ring, they saw. They heard. She didn't have any family."

Spencer can see it in his head, now that Jon's said it: the pretty barmaid catching a slaver's eye, the quiet questions asked, maybe they'd just drugged her and carried her off, maybe they'd paid someone, someone she called a friend, to let them take her. It happens. It happens. He's seen it happen.

"We were going to find her," Jon's saying. "Afterwards, after, it became - everything - but that's all that mattered to start, that was what we promised. We were going to find her together." His whole body is shaking. "We _swore_ we were going to -"

He's sobbing now. "Shh," says Ryan again, bringing both his hands up to cradle Jon's head, pressing his whole body against him, comforting. "Jon, Jon, shhh." And Spencer realizes what Ryan's going to do a moment before he does it. He pulls away from the two of them just in time to see Ryan dip his head and kiss Jon's mouth, gentle and firm. Jon gasps into the kiss and shuts his eyes, clenching his hands in Ryan's shirt.

Spencer doesn't know if Ryan's done that before.

He hasn't moved when Jon breaks the kiss and hides his face in Ryan's shoulder again. Ryan looks up, looks straight at him, and Spencer can read all the emotions that flicker through his eyes, guilty, defiant, begging. He rolls away from the two of them, stands up. "I'm going to go check on Brendon," he says, and his voice sounds more or less normal, which is strange.

Nothing about Ryan's expression changes, but Spencer sees it all the same when _terrified_ joins the rest of the things his eyes are saying. He reaches out without even thinking about it, his hand landing on the side of Ryan's neck. Ryan shifts subtly, leaning into the touch.

"It's all right," Spencer says. Between them, Jon lies shaking and silent. Spencer doesn't think he's heard a word.

He finds Brendon in a room down the hallway, curled up on a bench beside the window, watching the sun rise. There's a squirrel on the window sill, but it bolts from sight when Spencer steps into the room.

Brendon looks up. "Oh. Hi. How's..." He trails off. "Stupid question."

Spencer walks over to sit beside him; Brendon shifts over and pulls his legs up, making himself smaller. "Ryan's with him," he says.

"That's good." Brendon looks like he's about to say something more, but he only sighs, fidgeting a little and tugging at the knot in his sling. Under the collar of his shirt, Spencer can see where the skin of his neck and shoulder is rubbed red.

"Does that hurt?"

Brendon scowls, contorting himself as he reaches with his good hand. "I can't - the knot's too tight, I can't get it off on my own."

"Here, let me." Spencer reaches out, and Brendon lowers his arm immediately and drops his chin to his chest. He shivers slightly when Spencer's fingers brush over his neck, but he doesn't move or complain as Spencer tugs and worries at the knot. He finally gets it loose enough to untie. "Are you supposed to be taking this off?"

"It's driving me _crazy_ ," says Brendon, pulling the sling off. "I'm not going to go climb trees or anything, okay? I'm just fucking sick of it."

Spencer rubs at the chafed skin of Brendon's neck absently. "It'll get better," he says, and he's curious, that's all, he hasn't really gotten a good look since Brendon was unconscious and bleeding and - He's just curious, that's why he pushes aside the collar of Brendon's shirt to look at the bandage. It's clean and white, no blood soaking through at all, and he feels a little stupid for wondering.

"I thought," Brendon begins, but he doesn't go on. He doesn't move away either, even though he's vibrating a little under Spencer's hand and swinging one leg over the edge of the bench.

"Thought what?"

"I heard them talking, downstairs," says Brendon. His leg goes still for a moment, then starts swinging again. "I mean, they knew I was there, I wasn't eavesdropping. Gerard wants to go back to the camp tonight. Whatever they were doing - he's pretty determined. Ray's trying to talk him out of it."

"Maybe he'll succeed," says Spencer. He tugs Brendon's collar back into place but doesn't bring his hand away. It's strange, he thinks, strange how he can feel all of Brendon's nervousness, all the small, uncontrolled motions he's gotten so used to seeing. "Lord Way might listen to him," he says. His hopes aren't high. Lord Way doesn't seem like the type to give up on an idea just because it might get him killed.

"I'm not sure he should," says Brendon.

Spencer stares at him. "Why not?"

"Why should he?" Brendon returns, lifting his chin stubbornly. "Gerard, he wants to help the slaves in that camp, that's - isn't that why we're here? To help him do that?"

They're here because Jon's here, Spencer thinks, and Ryan wants to be with Jon, and Spencer can't let Ryan go. But he says, "You call him Gerard?"

"He said we should."

"He has no idea what he's doing."

"No," Brendon agrees. "I thought maybe if Jon could tell him how..."

"Jon's not really in any shape to be making plans right now," says Spencer. But even as he says it, he starts thinking. It's a terrible idea. Lord Way is an awful actor; he doesn't even talk to the people in his own village. They'll never fall for it, not like they did with Lord Wentz on the other side of the border. It feels like so long ago. But the men at the Beckett place, Butcher and the others, they talked about their plans, their secrets, what they did that worked and didn't work. Spencer hadn't asked questions, but he had listened. "We've never done this before, not like Jon and - not like Jon has."

"I know." Brendon slumps into himself a little, and when he looks down his hair falls over his face. "I just thought... I don't know. I thought it would be safe here."

Spencer brushes Brendon's hair back and cups his hand around the side of Brendon's face and Brendon - he closes his eyes, doesn't flinch away or move, just lets Spencer touch him. "I did too," says Spencer. He'd let himself believe it, even though he knew better. "This day - yesterday - it's really completely sucked, hasn't it?"

Brendon lets out a startled laugh. "God, yes," he says, then he bites his lip quickly, stopping the laugh even though he's still smiling.

Spencer brushes his thumb over Brendon's lower lip, teasing it free from his teeth. He doesn't even realize he's doing it until Brendon's eyes widen suddenly, dark and surprised, and he makes a small, low noise.

Spencer snatches his hand away. "Sorry," he says quickly. He feels his face growing hot and he looks away and twists his hands together in his lap. "Sorry, I didn't mean -"

"Spencer," Brendon says. "Spencer, don't - it's okay."

After a long moment, Spencer glances at him again. Brendon looks - hopeful, maybe, like he's waiting for something. His expression is usually so open, so easy to read when he's happy or scared or angry or sad, but Spencer can't figure it out now. He stands up, flinching slightly when his leg brushes against Brendon's, and he says, "We should get some sleep."

Brendon draws his leg up to his chest and hooks his good arm around it, and he's looking out the window when he asks, "Are you going back to them?"

Spencer thinks about Ryan and Jon curled together on the bed a few rooms away, tears and whispers and quiet kisses, and something tightens in his chest. He reaches down, brushes his fingers across Brendon's knuckles. "When I said 'we', I actually meant 'we'. If there's something happening tonight..."

Brendon lets Spencer take his hand and pull him to his feet. "Are we going to help?"

Spencer says, "We're going to sleep."

Brendon looks at him for a long moment, still holding Spencer's hand. Then he nods like he's coming to a decision. "Okay. Sleep."

Brendon lies on his back, and after Spencer lies down beside him it's only a few minutes before he's asleep. He waits until Brendon's breathing is slow and even, until his limbs are loose and relaxed, and he rolls onto his side and curls around Brendon, presses the softest of kisses to his temple. Brendon's no more still asleep then he is awake and it should be annoying, that much constant motion, but Spencer doesn't mind.  
_

 **  
_xxiii._   
**

Brendon's woken by voices, Spencer and someone. Spencer and Gerard? He keeps his eyes closed and listens while they talk low and urgent, although he's still tired enough that it's hard to follow the conversation.

"...we need him with us, he lies better than I do. We've just got to convince them, so we can get close enough -"

"Leave him _alone_. Who says I can make him do it anyway?"

"He listens to you."

"No, he - no. We aren't here to save anyone. All right? That's just Jon, and look at him -"

"But they were getting _hurt_." That's definitely Gerard. He sounds appalled and upset and stubborn. "You didn't see what -"

"I saw what they did to Tom," says Spencer flatly.

There's a long pause.

"Just ask him, then?" says Gerard. "Just tell him what we're planning. It's risky, all right, but Ray thinks it could work, as long as we give Alicia enough time to get the cages open, and they believed Ryan, he's good at this -"

"And what about the guards?" asks Spencer.

"The slaves will help us to -"

"Kill them all?"

Another long pause. Brendon doesn't think he moves at all, makes any noise, but he feels Spencer touch his arm lightly, so he must know Brendon's awake. "Bren?" he says.

Brendon turns over - his shoulder twinges - and sits up. "Hi," he says. He looks up at the two of them, Gerard chewing his lip nervously and Spencer completely expressionless. It's pretty obvious what's going on. "You're going to rescue the slaves?" he says.

"Yes," says Gerard.

"No," says Spencer. "Not if you need Ryan for it. He won't leave Jon anyway."

"He would if you asked," Gerard says.

"I won't ask."

Gerard hesitates, turns to walk to the door, stops again, turns back, his hands flailing in a gigantic, ridiculous gesture of frustration. "Why _not_?" he demands. "I don't understand, why won't you help us? There are people _suffering_ down there, okay, if you'd seen - they dragged out these two guys and made them fight, made them _hurt_ each other, and then when the riot started they were using fucking _clubs_ to get them under control, beating them up, and -" He stops. He looks angry and sick.

"They're gladiators. It's what happens," says Spencer. Gerard stares at him as if he's completely incomprehensible, as if he's _evil_. Brendon thinks Gerard doesn't know enough to hear the slight tightening in Spencer's voice.

"But, but," Gerard says, and his hands flail again. He's right up in Spencer's space now. "But you _have_ to understand, you have to know what they're - it could have been you, couldn't it? It could have been you! And someone saved you, so why won't you help us save them? _You_ were -"

" _Who told you that_?" interrupts Spencer, the words ripped out of him sharp and fast. His face has gone white.

Gerard looks confused. "I - I guessed." He steps back. "I guessed, is that - was I not supposed to? I'm sorry, I -"

"It's okay," says Brendon, and he's saying it to Gerard but he's standing up beside Spencer, wrapping his good arm around Spencer's waist and holding on. Spencer sways towards him a little, bumping their hips together. "It's okay," he repeats. Both of them are looking at him. "And, um. I think. I can do it?" he says. "If Ryan won't. I can lie. I can act. As long as it doesn't need both arms -"

"Shut the fuck up," says Spencer, and one of his arms comes up to curl around Brendon's shoulders, possessive, protective, his fingers resting lightly right over the bandage. "It's dangerous. It's dangerous for Ryan and it's dangerous for you, and I'm sick of this, I'm _sick_ of it, I won't do it anymore. You can't, I don't, I don't want to watch anyone get hurt ever again -"

"That doesn't mean," says Gerard quietly, "that you can just close your eyes."

Spencer glares at him. Brendon thinks he'd quail under the force of that glare, but Gerard just crosses his arms, hugging himself, and waits. He doesn't look angry or commanding or fierce or anything. He just looks determined - determined and sad.

"It's okay," says Brendon again, and steps away from Spencer's side, even though he's suddenly cold when he can't feel the comfortable warmth of Spencer's arm against the back of his neck anymore. "It's okay, Spencer." He meets Spencer's eyes. "I'll go. It doesn't have to be Ryan."

"I don't want it to be you, either," Spencer says.

"What? What's going on?" comes a voice from the doorway. Brendon looks up, and Ryan's standing there, barefoot. He's got a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and he's huddled into it a little. "Spencer?" he says. "Where did you go? What's happening?"

"Ryan," says Spencer. "Is Jon okay?"

Ryan's hand comes up from under the blanket to rub at the back of his neck. "He's asleep."

Spencer nods. Brendon looks from one to the other and wonders what on earth it is he's missing. They don't seem to be fighting anymore, at least.

Gerard ignores whatever the tension in the air is, and fixes on Ryan at once. "We're going back," he says. "We're going back for the rest of the slaves. For the gladiators. Will you -"

"I'll do it," says Brendon again. "It's all right. I want to help."

Ryan looks at him, then at Spencer, then at Gerard. Finally he drops the blanket and folds his arms. There are goosebumps on his the skin of his forearms. He must really be cold. The Ways' house is kind of drafty. "What's the plan?" he says.

"Um," says Gerard. "It'll be me and Mikey, we'll go back, 'cause you remember I told them I'd have to ask Mikey about it? And then we talk to them again - we'll buy a couple of slaves and go - and Alicia's going to sneak into the barn while they're distracted, start opening cages. We'll be waiting in the woods, us and Ray and the women -" He pauses. "We think, we think the slaves will be able to do it themselves once they're loose. They're trained to fight. It's risky, but -"

"That," says Ryan, "is a really stupid plan."

Gerard looks annoyed. "I know! But we've got to do something!"

"And where does Brendon come in?" Ryan asks. It's weird, Brendon thinks, the way he talks to Gerard - sharp, scolding, confident, not a trace of slave left in him. It's weird how Gerard lets him. And it's weird, too, how easy it is to watch, to listen to, how natural it sounds for Ryan to be commanding and chiding and scornful, walking all over everyone else in the room. When he glances at Spencer, though, to see how he's reacting, Spencer's got his lips pressed tight together as he watches Ryan, but the expression in his eyes is soft.

"Well," says Gerard. "They won't, I mean, it'd be a bit odd for me to be doing money stuff -" _because I'm the lord,_ he doesn't need to say, "- but someone has to, um. Because that's all they care about, right? Besides, I don't know if I can - I mean, Mikey's a pretty good liar if he has to be, but -"

"It should be me," says Ryan. "They think I'm your steward. They'll be expecting me."

"That's what I _said,_ " says Gerard. "But -"

"I'll do it," says Ryan.

Spencer makes a small sound, just a quick inhale. Ryan looks at him. "I mean. Spence, I don't want," he says. There's an odd note in his voice - pleading? "But it shouldn't - it shouldn't be him." He doesn't look at Brendon as he says it. Brendon doesn't know what he's thinking.

Spencer seems to, though. Spencer always does. He breathes, a gentle sigh. "You have to be careful, Ry," he says. "And after - after this, I think. I think maybe we should leave. Find - somewhere else."

"Jon -" says Ryan.

"We can take Jon with us," Spencer says. His eyes are locked with Ryan's. "He can come. Wherever we go." Ryan nods slightly and licks his lips, but doesn't react any further, doesn't move from the doorway. "Wherever we go, Ryan, if that's what you want," Spencer repeats. "I, I think he'd come - now that -"

He doesn't finish the sentence. _Now that Tom's dead, now that he's a wanted man who can't show his face anywhere the army might see him, now that he's alone._ Brendon hears it anyway, he thinks everyone in the room does, although Gerard is the only one who lets his reaction show on his face. Gerard lets everything show, all the time.

Ryan looks down. "I'll do it," he says to his feet. "I'll - soon, this evening, right? I'll come with you." He looks up and meets Gerard's eyes. "We'll rescue the slaves. And then, then we're going to leave."

 _What about me_? Brendon wants to say, wants to yell. _If you're going, if you're taking Jon, what about me?_

He doesn't, though. Spencer and Ryan are looking at each other now, having one of their silent conversations, and he knows, he _knows_ that he's not a part of them, doesn't belong with them, not with either one. He's not Jon. He fucked up any place he had there long ago.

"I want, though," Ryan says. "When I'm gone. While I'm gone. Someone has to stay with Jon. He shouldn't, I don't want -" He hesitates. "He shouldn't be alone when he wakes up."

"I will," says Brendon at once. He can do that, for Ryan, for Jon. That's _easy._ "I'll stay with him."

"And me, Ry," says Spencer. "And me."

"Thanks," whispers Ryan, not quite directly to either of them. He turns to Gerard. "When are we going?"

"As soon as we can," Gerard says. "The light's fading. Alicia says it'll be easier after dark."

"Okay," says Ryan. "Let's go." But he doesn't move.

"Ryan -" begins Spencer.

And then Ryan's crossing the room and putting his hands on Spencer's shoulders. "Spence," he says, and kisses him quickly. One of Spencer's hands comes up and lands on Ryan's forearm, and Brendon can't help it, he's staring, and then it's over, just like that. Their lips make a faint noise when they part. Ryan leans his forehead against Spencer's and says, "I'll come back."

Spencer doesn't reply, but his hand on Ryan's forearm tightens for an instant before he lets go. Brendon can see the white marks on Ryan's skin. Gerard clears his throat and says, "All right, then," and Ryan follows him out of the room.

He glances sideways at Brendon as he goes, so quickly Brendon's almost sure he imagined it.

When they're gone, Spencer sits on the edge of the bed and runs his hand through his hair. He looks lost, scared, and he's not even trying to hide it. Brendon hesitates only a second, then sits beside him and gives him a one-armed hug. "He'll be back," he says. "They'll be back. They will."

Spencer swallows and nods, like he's trying to convince himself. "I just want, I just want us to be safe," he says quietly. "Just safe."

Safe and free, Brendon thinks, but he doesn't say it. "You will be." He hates Gerard a little bit, just in that moment, for making Spencer think he's not allowed to want that. But it passes quickly and he feels only sad. They need Jon for this, the explaining and reassuring, that's what he's good at. Brendon doesn't know any more about being free than Spencer does; nothing he can say will make a difference. "We should go..."

"Right. Jon." Spencer doesn't move away right away. He brushes one hand over Brendon's hair, then sighs and stands up. "Coming?"

Jon is still asleep, curled onto his side and clutching the blanket like a little kid. Spencer looks down at him for a long moment, then pulls a chair over to the window and sits down. The sun is going down and there's a cool breeze kicking up.

"Do you want a blanket?" asks Brendon, hesitating between the bed and the chair.

"I'm fine."

"Right. Okay." Brendon bounces on the balls of his feet for a second. What he wants to do - what he _really_ wants to do, so much it's like a sharp, sudden pain in his chest - is squeeze into that chair beside Spencer and burrow into his warmth, hide his face in Spencer's shoulder and listen to his heartbeat and stop thinking about Ryan going back to the slavers' camp and everything that can go wrong.

But that's not why he's here. That's not what he promised, and he doesn't think - Spencer would let him, probably, but it's not what Spencer wants. Even if Brendon didn't think - _know_ \- before, from the very first time he saw Ryan and Spencer in the caravan, saw the wall they built around themselves to keep everybody else out, it's obvious now.

So he sits on the bed beside Jon, leaning against the headboard instead of lying down, and smoothes Jon's hair back from his face. Obvious, yes, but different, and Brendon's not going to think about why Jon was the one they let in. He already knows.

He doesn't know how long they sit there, Spencer by the window and Brendon on the bed. It gets dark outside and the air grows chillier, but not enough to make Brendon get a blanket or close the window. As warm as it is here, spring is probably just beginning in the north, at Lady Victoria's estate. Former estate. He wonders what's become of it now, the grand old house and sprawling grounds, if anybody's taking care of it at all or if it's all falling to ruin. There are probably weeds overgrowing the terrace in the back, where Victoria would always gather her friends as soon as the summer nights were warm enough.

Friends and servants and slaves, Brendon thinks, although sometimes it was easy to forget there were lines. Lady Victoria would summon him and say, laughing, _I have a present for you, do you want to see it?_ And she wouldn't wait for an answer, she would show him the strange, unfamiliar instrument she's bought from a trader. _It's from the far east,_ she would say, tracing over the intricate painted designs with her long fingernails. _They say there's nobody in the kingdom at all who can play it. Do you think you can?_ Like it was a dare, a game, not an order.

Jon stirs and Brendon snaps out of his memory. Jon wakes up, slowly at first, confused and groggy, then his eyes snap open and he bolts upright. "What -"

Brendon sees the moment Jon remembers, how his shoulders go tense and his face falls. But he only looks at Brendon and Spencer and says, "Where's Ryan?"

Spencer says, "They went back to the camp."

Jon's eyes widen in alarm. "They went back? What the hell did they do that for?"

"Lord Way has a _plan_." Spencer's tone doesn't exactly disguise what he thinks of the plan.

"He wants to set the slaves free," Brendon says. He quickly explains Gerard's plan, and Jon's expression grows more and more disbelieving as he talks.

"That's... they actually think that will work?" Jon asks. "When did they leave?"

"Before sunset," says Spencer. "A couple hours ago."

"Shit." Jon rubs his hand over his face. "I guess it's too late to stop them, then. _Shit._ Why the fuck didn't they wake me up? I could've told them -"

"They know it's a dangerous plan," Brendon says, feeling strangely defensive. "You would have told them not to go, right?"

Jon looks bewildered. "Yes, of _course_ I would have told them not to go. They can't move this quickly, not with traders this unknown, not this close to the safehouse. That's not how we -" He breaks off suddenly, and the expression that flickers over his face is so pained and bleak that Brendon leans forward and puts his arm around Jon's shoulders, squeezes him tightly.

"Well, I don't think Gerard would have listened anyway," says Brendon. "He's kind of stubborn."

Spencer snorts softly.

Jon leans into Brendon a little. "Well, okay," he says, and his voice is deliberate and determined. "What are they going to do if their plan _does_ work?"

Spencer frowns a little. "What do you mean?"

"They're just going to set a whole bunch of slaves free?" Jon asks. He slips away from Brendon, stands up, and starts pacing the room. "Where are they going to go? Do we even know how far these people are from home? Are they prisoners of war, criminals, debtors, what? Do we even have food to give them, or places for them to stay? Or are they just sending them out into the wild to fend for themselves? I can forge some papers, but there isn't time to do a lot, not unless we can put them up for a while." He turns sharply. "Damn it, we're not ready for this. Did they even think about that?"

"I don't, I don't think they..." Brendon shakes his head. "I really don't think they did."

"Great," says Jon. "That's fucking fantastic."

Brendon glances at Spencer, and Spencer meets his eyes evenly for a moment before he shrugs. Turning back to Jon, Brendon says, "Can we do anything? I mean, now? In case... in case it does work?"

Jon looks like he wants to say no. He looks past Brendon, past Spencer, and there's nothing in his eyes except grief so powerful Brendon wants to turn away.

"You might as well," says Jon. He strides over to the door and into the hallway without looking back. "There's a lot to do."

[Chapter Eleven](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/3497.html)


	12. But Not the Song (11/17)

_  
**But Not the Song (11/17)**   
_   
[Story Index and Warnings](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/446.html)

[Chapter Ten](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/3292.html)

  
**  
_xxiv._   
**

There are only two things in the world Ryan wants to do right now.

He wants to turn around, ride back to the estate, find Spencer and Jon - and Brendon, shit, also Brendon - and just, just _see_ them, that's all, see them and hold them and keep them together and safe until the sun rises again, and again, and again. And again, for as many days as it fucking takes, until Jon is no longer hunted and Spencer is no longer scared and Brendon can play the piano as much and as loudly as he wants, and wishing for impossible things is stupid but it doesn't stop Ryan from _wanting_.

The other thing Ryan wants to do right now is tell Lord Way to shut the fuck up.

Lord Way, apparently, talks when he's nervous.

"It's not that I don't understand," he saying, and Ryan doesn't even know if he's talking to him or his brother. "I mean, I don't, I know that I _can't_ , but that's not - I thought this was what you guys did," he says, looking directly at Ryan. "Helping people, I thought that was why you were here."

He seems genuinely confused, and it occurs to Ryan that there's a whole lot he doesn't feel like explaining to Lord Way.

"It's not that simple, Gee," his brother says. Ryan's startled to hear him speak; he's been almost silent since they left the estate. "You can't guilt them into staying."

Gerard looks stricken. "That's not what I - I'm not _trying_ to. I'm not. Ryan, I'm not. I just want to understand."

Ryan rides in silence for a few minutes. He doesn't know where Toro and the smuggler women are. Not far, he guesses, but they're staying out of sight, keeping up the appearance that Lord Way and his brother are just out for a night ride of dubious intent, that's all, nothing worth commenting on. When they rode through the village Ryan didn't see anybody watching them, but that doesn't mean they weren't. This village, he thinks, knows a lot more about subterfuge than they do, and is probably already on edge from having slavers camped out nearby.

He twists in his saddle and stares at Gerard, who looks back without blinking, just waiting.

"Have you ever been a slave?" asks Ryan. He doesn't have to wait for an answer, but he does, going on only after Gerard shakes his head. "Then you can't understand. You should be happy you'll never have to."

The road is winding into the hills, and in a few minutes they'll be descending toward the slave camp again. Ryan kicks his horse forward a little bit. He'll have to hang back, when they get closer, a servant would never ride before his lord into a meeting like this. But for now, he wants to be the first to see the campfires and torches in the valley. He wonders how many slaves were injured or killed that morning, how many are being punished for rioting, whether they'll even be able to fight when Alicia sets them free.

He wonders, and he thinks about what he'll say. _His lordship wishes to make a purchase_ , obsequious and deferent, but arrogant enough to show the slavers he knows he's better than them. _His lordship wishes to make a purchase._

When he reaches the crest of the hill, Ryan stops and waits for the Ways to catch up.

He hears a noise, and looks around - and suddenly Alicia's there, standing in the shadows. Maybe she was there all along or maybe she's just gotten there, but either way Ryan's absolutely certain he wouldn't have heard her if she didn't wanted to be heard. She watches him narrow-eyed. When he nods, she nods back.

The Ways finally catch up. Gerard's a very bad rider and Mikey's not much better, and they both look awkward on the backs of their borrowed horses. (One is Toro's, one is the one that Spencer rode here.) Gerard's still talking endlessly: "- gladiator tattoos, I think, but so _many_ -"

But he falls silent when Mikey's attention jerks away from him and he peers at the shadows, squinting behind his glasses. "Hello?" he says.

Ryan looks around. Alicia's evaporated into the forest.

"Who was that?" Mikey says.

"Alicia," says Ryan. "Are we ready?"

"I want those two we saw earlier," says Gerard. "Even if -" he chews the inside of his lip - "even if we can't save the others, I want those two."

Ryan doesn't say anything about wanting people or buying them or choosing them. Gerard's one of the good guys. Gerard's trying to do the right thing. "That's the plan," he says. "Let me do the talking. Try not to be too -"

"Too Gerard," says Mikey. Ryan glances at him. He thinks the narrow line of his mouth under the faint moonlight might be amused, but it's hard to tell.

Gerard nods. "Right. Right. Here we go."

They're stopped at the gate to the farm by a couple of guards, big burly guys with pistols in their belts. Ryan wonders for a moment if either of them was the man who shot Tom. Gerard and Mikey say nothing, just sneer over the tops of their heads - Mikey's a lot better at it than Gerard is - while Ryan looks down, supercilious, and says, "I hope you managed to get your stock under control."

The nearest guard folds his arms. "What's it to you?"

Ryan pulls a coin out of his pocket and holds it up. It flashes in the light from the guards' lanterns, the metal cool against his fingers. "His lordship wishes to make a purchase," he says.

The slavers are suspicious. They don't let Ryan and the Ways pass immediately, instead conferring quietly amongst themselves and casting wary glances into the shadows outside the fence. Ryan sees them glance once or twice toward the farmhouse, and the longer they hesitate the more nervous he becomes. The encampment is quiet and nearly empty, the slaves all locked in the barn again and the smugglers mostly asleep. Alicia's probably in by now too, thinks Ryan, over the fence at the back like before.

One of the guards looks at Ryan again, and Ryan holds the coin so it shines. The men nod at each other and let them through the gate.

Another slaver, one of the leaders, meets them inside, and nods at them after he's conferred with the guards for a moment or two. They dismount and follow him towards the barn. They pass a freshly dug pit, not yet filled in, and Gerard asks curiously, "What's that?" Ryan wants to curse at him, but bites his tongue. It's obvious what it is.

The man answers, "Burial pit, my lord," with an amused, scornful lilt to his voice. He obviously doesn't think much of these sheltered gentlemen. "We lost a bit of property in that riot. And we had some other trash we needed to get rid of as well."

 _Tom_ , thinks Ryan. Tom's body is probably in there. The slaver's not looking right at Gerard, which is just as well, since Gerard's gone a little white, and it occurs to Ryan that Tom had been here, organizing the setup for the safehouse, for nearly a month. He'd been laughing when he and Gerard came to greet them, two days ago. Gerard had liked him.

It also occurs to him that the slavers don't know that. There is nothing about the slavers' words to suggest they know there's a connection between the Ways and the fugitives.

Ryan does not let the relief show on his face. "I hope the pair my lord requires is undamaged," he says snootily, dragging the man's attention back to him. "Otherwise we shall have to consider a reduction on the price. He admired their fighting spirit."

The slaver blinks at him. "Iero? You - you want to buy little Frankie? And _Bryar_?" He laughs. "You better have some plan for how you're gonna get them back that manor. And a nice tough cage to put 'em in - _two_ nice tough cages, even. Those two are half-wild."

"Exactly," Gerard butts in. "Back to nature, right? Mankind untrammeled. Art is at its grandest held in the fingers of the bestial." Beside him, Mikey pushes his glasses up his nose.

The slaver glances at them disbelievingly, but if there's one thing Gerard _can_ sell, it's head-in-the-clouds artiste. The man looks back at Ryan and rolls his eyes, inviting him to share in the thought: _can you believe this guy?_

Ryan makes himself smirk back. "We have adequate accommodation," he says. "We may need to purchase some shackles from you, though. And perhaps a little chloroform for the journey back."

"We can deliver them for you -" begins the man.

"No," says Mikey flatly.

"The gentlemen don't like visitors," says Ryan. This is the other problem, of course: they're buying a pair of dangerous slaves whom they _know_ are prepared to fight, maybe kill, for freedom. The rescued gladiators are going to have no way of knowing that their new 'owners' are on their side.

The slaver shakes his head. "Fine. Dose Iero and throw him over a horse, he's small enough that he'll be out for hours. Bryar'll follow, just don't let him get his hands loose."

"You're too kind," says Ryan.

"If they get out anyway, it's your funeral," mutters the man.

He unlocks the barn door and drags it open. It's a tough job for one guy, but none of them offers to help. Inside the barn is pitch black but not quiet. Ryan hears the familiar sounds of too many people breathing too loud in too little space. He puts his hand over his mouth automatically, as if that'll hold back the nausea: there's nowhere he wants to be less. _It's like the mill,_ he thinks. The air was full of breathing there too, every night. Even before - even before - (he can't think it) - he'd slept pressed up against Spencer, trying to block it all out so that the only thing he could hear was Spencer's heartbeat.

"One moment," he says, when the door is open. This is it, this is what the plan depends on. They have to make an opening for Alicia and her lockpicks and her knives. "I think my lord would like to hear a little about the history of these two before he buys them. Just to make sure you're not selling us short, you understand."

"What - oh! Yes!" says Gerard. "Yes, I'd like to hear a little more." He drops his arm companionably over the slaver's shoulders - Ryan sees the _this lord is a crazy lord_ expression pass over the man's face again - and Mikey silently comes up on his other side, steering him without actually appearing to steer him, making him turn away to talk to them both.

Ryan's the only one watching, and even he barely sees the shadows move.

He doesn't hear what the slaver says about Gerard's two purchases. Time seems to speed up: now they're in the barn (Ryan breathes lightly, trying not to taste the stench in the air), but there's no sign of Alicia in the faint light from the man's lantern as he drugs one of the slaves and shackles them both. And now they're out again - _god, god, air_ \- and strapping Iero over the saddle of Ryan's horse. The slaver holds his pistol against the back of Bryar's neck as they loop a rope from his cuffed wrists to the bridle of Mikey's horse.

And now they're leaving, passing the open grave again, out through the gate. Ryan and the slaver shake hands in the exit, the guards murmuring amused farewells.

Ryan has to walk now, leading the horse that's carrying Iero. He can feel Bryar's gaze drilling into the back of his head, and he thinks, _That man hates me right now._ Mikey is silent, of course. For a wonder, Gerard is too.

They've crested the hill and started down the winding road when the first shouts ring out from the camp. It sounds like the guards at first, angrily screaming orders, but those are followed quickly by other voices, less clear and even more angry.

Both Gerard and Mikey twist around in their saddles to look back. Ryan says sharply, "We should hurry now."

He glances over his shoulder just in time to see Bryar stumble and fall. His arms are wrenched in front of him and he's dragged a few inches before Mikey notices. Mikey's eyes grow wide with horror, and he pulls his horse to a halt immediately and jumps down. "Shit, shit, I'm sorry, I didn't - _shit_ , are you okay?"

Bryar doesn't answer. He starts to rise to his knees, but he's moving slowly and painfully. Ryan knots the horse's reins on its neck and walks back to Bryar. "Untie him," he says to Mikey. They can't waste time pretending, not with a camp full of angry slaves and murderous guards just behind them. He stops beside Bryar and leans down to pull him to his feet.

He sees it coming in the split-second before it happens, and Ryan is fast, he has a lot of practice dodging blows, but Bryar is faster. He swings his shackled arms out like a club, striking Ryan in the knees and knocking him down easily. Then he lunges forward and shoves Ryan back, slamming him into the ground hard enough to knock his breath away. Ryan lashes out with both hands, clawing at Bryar's face - Ryan knows how to fight dirty when he's outweighed and outmatched - but Bryar plants a knee in the middle of his chest and wraps the chains of his shackles around Ryan's neck.

Ryan goes instantly limp. He stops fighting, stops _breathing_. Distantly he hears somebody shouting - Gerard, Mikey, maybe both of them - but all he can see is Bryar leaning over him, his face contorted with fury, and he knows you don't fight when they're choking you, you _never_ fight, that'll get you killed, you just wait and hope they lose interest and you wait and wait and _hope_ -

"Stop it! What the fuck are you doing? _Stop it_!"

Something slaps the side of Bryar's head, just enough to startled him into looking up, and the pressure across Ryan's neck lessens. He tries to gasp but it's not enough. It sounds like a strangled squeak instead.

"We're untying you. Stop hurting him, he's trying to _let you go._ " That's Gerard and he's frantic. There are boots on the ground by Ryan's head and he flinches instinctively, then something slithers against his arm.

Rope. It's rope untied from Mikey's horse, and Bryar understands just as Ryan does. The chain is suddenly gone from Ryan's neck, the crushing pressure gone from his chest. Bryar is scrambling away, taking the tangle of rope with him.

Ryan rolls onto his side, coughing. Gerard kneels beside him and touches his shoulder, but Ryan swats his hand away, refusing help as he sits up. Gerard backs away slowly. "Sorry, sorry, I just - you okay? Ryan? Are you okay?"

" _Fuck_ ," Ryan rasps, rubbing his neck and wincing. He rolls his head a little and takes a few deep breaths, and he looks up at Bryar, still standing over him but inching away slowly. Bryar's eyes are flicking between his friend slung over the horse and the three men before him. Ryan reaches into his pocket and pulls out the key the slavers gave him. He throws it at Bryar and croaks, "Unlock your own fucking chains."

Bryar fumbles the key and drops it, but he bends down to pick it up.

"Do it quickly," Ryan says, standing up. He rubs at his throat and winces. "We need to get the hell out of here before the guards back there start running."

"Ryan," says Gerard, looking at him quickly. "We haven't explained anything."

Ryan makes an impatient gesture and takes his horses reins again. "Then explain, but we need to _move_ , okay?" He's seen slave camps in revolt before. He knows that nobody will care if they're minding their own business on the road when either guards or newly-freed slaves come along. He starts walking, tugging the horse behind him. The man on the horse hasn't even stirred.

"I - right," says Gerard. "We're not - we're going to - "

Mikey interrupts him. "We're setting you free. We don't want slaves. Our friends just set all the other slaves in the camp free. But we probably shouldn't hang around here in the middle of the road." He glances at Gerard, then Ryan. "Right?"

"We're not going to hurt you," says Gerard. Ryan glances back; Bryar has unlocked the shackles but he hasn't moved. Gerard sounds nervous, but he grows more certain as he goes on. "You don't have to - you can go, you can run right now, it doesn't matter. We're not even armed. We won't stop you. But if you come with us, we'll give you food and clothes and - and money, and you can go whenever you want."

Ryan hears the rattle of shackles dropping to the ground behind him, but he keeps walking. Bryar can take him down easily. Take him down, grab the horse, ride off with his friend and never look back. Ryan expects it, to be honest. He keeps his grip loose on the reins. He's not going to get in the man's way.

But Bryar doesn't make a move. He walks about thirty paces behind them, no more than a shadow on the dark road the few times Ryan glances back as they're traveling through the woods and the village. Maybe he's too hurt or tired; maybe he's biding his time. Maybe he just wants to know where they're going. If any buyer had taken Ryan's chains off within minutes of purchasing him, he would have been gone like a shot, never looking back.

Unless he was leaving Spencer behind. There were a lot of times when one of them could have run, but never both.

And that's basically what Lord Wentz did, Ryan thinks, and look how that turned out.

Ryan lifts the head of the man tied across the horse. He's still breathing, at least, although the guards really drugged the hell out of him.

When they're nearly back to the estate, Alicia appears suddenly on the other side of the horse. Ryan jumps a little and swears under his breath. "Stop doing that," he says.

She smirks. "You just need to learn how to listen better."

"What happened?" asks Gerard, riding up beside them. "Did it work? Where's Ray and the others?"

"Most of the slaves scattered. The rest are with the others." She spits on the ground. "Kids, mostly, too scared to run on their own."

Ryan nods, unsurprised. They start training gladiators young. Gerard looks alarmed, and Ryan wonders if it's just now occurring to him that running a safehouse means there are going to be people and strangers around all the time. But it's not his problem, not his house.

They pass through the gates to the estate. They're about halfway up the dark, overgrown drive before Ryan thinks to look back: Bryar isn't following them. In the shadows, Ryan can just barely make out his silhouette outside the gate, beneath the winged statues perched on the wall.

"Think he's gonna run?" asks Alicia, jerking her head back toward Bryar.

Ryan passes the reins to her. "No."

Gerard asks him what he's doing as he starts walking back, but Ryan ignores him. He doesn't even know what he's doing. He _knows_ he's no good at being reassuring. He doesn't even have to do this. The man can decide to come in or not, it's got nothing to do with Ryan. But he walks back anyway and stops about ten feet from the gate.

He and Bryar stare at each other for a long moment.

"I don't know," says Ryan, when he's starting to get bored of all the staring.

Bryar raises one eyebrow.

"I don't know if they're trustworthy," Ryan goes on. "We just met them - fuck, two days ago, I guess. It's been a long fucking couple of days." He crosses his arms over his chest. It's not a cold night, but he shivers nonetheless. "They want to help slaves escape. I don't think they'll be very good at it, but they want to try."

Bryar still says nothing.

Ryan rolls his eyes. "Do you even know how to talk? I've never believed that shit they say about gladiators being too stupid to talk, but you're not doing much to convince me otherwise."

Bryar snorts.

"That doesn't count," Ryan says. "They're taking your friend inside. They'll probably put him in a bedroom that hasn't been cleaned in about twenty years, and when he wakes up they'll give him food, and then he can leave if he wants. You can too. Or you can stand out here all night. I really don't fucking care."

He turns around and starts walking away. He's tired, his throat hurts like hell, he doesn't know what to say, and he wants to be inside. He wants to hold Spencer again now that he can, now that they're not broken anymore. He wants to curl up next to Jon and make sure he sleeps, to be there when another day comes and Tom is still dead. He doesn't want to stand outside on the road talking all night. He's no good at this anyway.

"You're not a steward," says Bryar. His voice is rough, like he's unused to speaking. "You're not - theirs. Their servant."

Ryan pauses mid-step, but he keeps walking. "No," he says.

There's warm yellow light glowing through the windows of the house, and voices spilling out into the night. It's probably the liveliest the house has been in years, and Ryan wonders if the Way brothers have started twitching yet. He hears one voice over the rest - Brendon, calling for water or bread or something, too loud and too vibrant. Ryan lets his breath catch a little before he quashes the feeling, shoves it aside.

He glances over his shoulder. Bryar is right behind him.

"You turned your back on me." Bryar sounds - not quite amused, but not quite anything else either. "The guard told you not to do that."

Ryan pulls open the front door. "You already strangled me once tonight. You had your chance."

Bryar's looming behind him like a small mountain as he walks in, intimidating as fuck, and Ryan swallows, feeling the bruises on his throat, and tries to be less nervous about it than he is. The quick trip of his pulse is just an automatic reaction, he knows. The big ones were always the bullies before. ( _Except_ , says something in his head, _that's not true, that's not true at all, what about Brendon's friend Zack, what about - you're making things up, he's just like you, and you're making things up because you're a coward._ )

It's been a while since anyone tried to choke him like that.

The hallway with its carvings and its spiders and its ridiculous overblown staircase is full of people. Toro and the smuggler women must have cut straight through the woods. Ryan can only see kids, all boys, it looks like. It's not that surprising; female gladiators are unusual and expensive and don't get sold away from their trainers often. The younger boys look about eleven or twelve, and the oldest Ryan can see is probably somewhere in his late teens. Everyone's milling around, lost and confused, and they're making a hell of a lot of noise.

This is what a safehouse is like, Ryan thinks. This is how it works. He sort of wants to go and hide.

"There weren't a lot of adults in the batch anyway," says Bryar. "Looks like they're all gone now."

"Where were you from?" Ryan asks.

Bryar snorts. "All over. Mostly debtors' kids. Us older ones - sold off from different training schools, circuses, places that didn't want us anymore."

Ryan nods and stares out across the heads of the crowd. There's no sign of Brendon or Spencer or Jon. Toro's in the thick of things, breaking up a - shit, a couple of the kids have started a fight, and they're swearing and yelling, kicking at each other and at Toro as well. The blacksmith, Jamia, is conferring quietly with Lyn by the door down to the kitchens. While Ryan watches, Alicia joins them in near-silence, one hand resting on the hilt of the long knife tucked into her belt. Mikey and Gerard are halfway across the hall, half-dragging half-carrying Iero between them. A yell starts up, suddenly, "Frank! Frank!" One of the kids has seen him and sounds upset.

And then Jon's there, standing on the stairs, Spencer just behind him with his arms folded. Ryan feels all over again a huge wave of gratitude for Spencer just _existing_ , because he's sticking close to Jon. Not quite hovering, not noticeably, but close. Jon doesn't seem aware of it.

Both of them spot Ryan at the same time. Spencer's the one who notices the bruises on Ryan's throat - his eyes widen - and Ryan hastily mouths _it's okay_. Spencer looks frightened, and then covers it up at once with an expression of annoyance, and mouths back, _can't leave you alone for two minutes, Ross._

Ryan wants to laugh, and no one's going to hurt him for it, so he does.

Jon's not paying attention to them. He looks Ryan up and down once, checking that he's okay, and then shifts his gaze back to the room at large. His lips move slightly; Ryan thinks he's doing a headcount.

There are far too many people. Ryan's got a headache building at the base of his skull.

"Okay!" Jon snaps at last, at the top of his voice. He's got his head up and his arms folded. He looks pissed off and tense and harsh, nothing like the Jon Ryan's used to at all. He doesn't think this is how Jon normally treats newly-rescued ex-slaves. It isn't how Jon treated _them_. Whatever else he is, Jon is always kind, and Ryan chews the inside of his cheek as he stares at him, wishing Spencer would maybe stand a little closer, give Jon something to lean on, to hold. "We need to sort you lot out somehow," Jon says loudly, roughly, "and we can't do anything if you keep making all this noise."

"We don't gotta do what you say!" yells one of the boys from the fight Toro broke up, and someone else shouts, "Liars! Liars! What did you do to Frank?"

Beside him Bryar huffs out a breath and says, "Well."

"What?" says Ryan.

But Bryar doesn't answer him. He's already striding into the crowd. "Shut the fuck up," he announces to the room at large, and he's speaking a lot quieter than Jon did, but the kids listen.

Bryar turns to Jon on the stairs. "I don't know who you are," he says. "I don't trust you. But we're listening."

Jon scrubs a hand through his hair. His jaw is tight. Maybe Spencer suddenly hears the things Ryan is thinking desperately at him, because he blinks and steps closer to Jon, bumping their arms together. Jon doesn't visibly lean into it, but - but it'll do. It's not _enough,_ Ryan thinks, but it'll have to do. He wants to go to Jon himself and wrap his arms around him, but he waits. He waits through Bryar's demands and questions and Jon's measured responses and Gerard's nervous interjections, waits through the freed slaves clattering into the never-used dining room for a promised meal, Bryar shepherding one of the oldest with a hand at the scruff of his neck.

Then he darts across the hallway and up the six or seven steps it takes to reach Jon and Spencer. He puts his arms around Jon's neck, trying to be warm and real and comforting like Spencer's been for him a thousand times. Jon's hands come up, holding onto him, and he whispers, "Kids. _God._ "

Spencer steps back a little, giving Ryan room, and then he steps back again. Ryan looks up, confused, and sees that Spencer is looking down the steps, looking at – it's Brendon. Brendon's just come back into the hall, and he's standing at the foot of the steps, looking up at them. There's a flash of expression on his face, open raw _something_ , and then it changes into worry and he says, "Ryan?"

Ryan pulls away from Jon, though he keeps one hand on his shoulder, and touches his throat self-consciously. It hurts. He has no idea how bad the bruises look. "Nothing to worry about," he says. His voice still sounds kind of hoarse. "Just a bit of confusion. I'm all right."

Brendon bites his lip and nods. He keeps glancing at random things - ragged carpet, carved banister, dirty windows, elaborate ceiling, his own hands - and then back at them, as if he's trying to look away but can't. "I'm going to go help make food," he says. "They need a lot, and they've got stores but - um."

"It's late," says Spencer.

Brendon nods. "It's fine. I'm not tired."

"You -"

"No, really, I'm not," Brendon repeats, earnest. "Seriously, I'm stuck here, I haven't done anything. I can do _something_. So I'm going to." He hesitates. "Anyway. You guys should rest."

Ryan steps back, leaning into Jon. Jon's arms come up and wrap around his waist. It's nice. He closes his eyes for a second, and crap, he _is_ tired, because it's hard to get them open again.

"There's a lot to do," says Jon softly, his voice rumbling in his chest against Ryan's back. "Tonight, and tomorrow. And the day after. And after that."

He sounds exhausted by it already, thinks Ryan. He sounds defeated. He shouldn't have to sound like that. It'll be, Ryan will… do something, fix it somehow, after they leave.

"Spence?" he says.

"You go on," Spencer says, and that does make Ryan open his eyes, makes him stare at Spencer in surprise. It's not that - he doesn't know what - whatever he was expecting, that wasn't it. Spencer nods at him, though, and doesn't look away, so - so it's all right. "I'm not really tired either," he says. "And food for those kids, it's a big job."

Oh. _I'm going to keep an eye on Brendon,_ Ryan hears. He nods. That's okay. Spencer cares about Brendon, he carried him across the mountains, he's always liked looking after people, and it's - that's okay. "Okay," he says, and finds one of Jon's hands with his, holds it tight. Jon makes a quiet _mmm_ noise in response, not really a question, not really anything, but his grip tightens as well, hard enough to hurt. Impulsively, Ryan half-turns in the circle of his arms and kisses his jawline, just under the ear.

Jon stands still and lets him do it, but he looks at Ryan with a serious expression afterwards. The grief in his eyes is still there, raw and horrible, right up near the surface, along with a whole host of other things.

 _Really?_ his expression says.

Ryan bites his lip and nods. He watches as Jon closes his eyes and opens them again, lashes brushing against his cheeks. Then he puts his arms around him and leans in to kiss Jon's cheek, quick and soft. He thought, when they did this – he's surprised to discover he's been thinking _when_ all along – it would be bigger, grander, something… But no. Jon needs him, and Ryan tightens his hold on him and lets Jon hide his face in Ryan's shoulder.

Spencer's moved while he's distracted, down the stairs to Brendon, and when Ryan looks Brendon's definitely, absolutely not looking at him or Jon. "Spencer," he says, "you don't have to, you should go to bed -"

"Bet you didn't know I can cook," Spencer says.

Ryan laughs softly.

"Can he?" says Jon, looking up.

"Define 'cook'," Ryan answers.

"He's picky," Spencer tells Brendon. "Don't listen to him. Just because he has no useful skills at all -"

Jon freezes. Ryan feels him do it, and he thinks _what?_ and then _fuck_. Spencer's cut himself off too; he looks stricken. Ryan wants to go to him, wants to kiss him again and touch his hair and say _fuck, I've missed you being bitchy._

He's not letting Jon go right now, though. Instead he says, "Spencer has _always_ made fun of me. Because he's an asshole." He looks right at Spencer. "Who can't cook."

Spencer's laugh is sudden and surprised and _real_ , and Ryan feels proud. "Fuck you too, I _can_ ," he says. "Come on, Brendon."

Brendon looks from Ryan to Spencer to Jon and for once Ryan can't place the look on his face at all, but he says, "Yeah. We have a houseful of hungry orphans." He giggles suddenly, disbelieving. "Hungry orphans!"

"We've got to think of something to do with them now," says Jon, stepping away from Ryan altogether.

Ryan touches his arm. "We will," he says, and he's not sure but he can _make_ himself sure. "We will."  
_

 **  
_xxv._   
**

They manage, by some miracle, to put together enough of a meal to feed all of the rescued slaves. The dining room grows suddenly quiet when they start to eat. Spencer thinks it's probably the first real meal any of them has seen in weeks, and it's definitely the first meal any of them has ever been served in a fine dining room by the lord of the house himself. ("No, really, I'll take it out," Gerard had said, grabbing the first steaming pot from Spencer. "I'm a terrible cook, thank god you guys can do that part, but I think I can figure out how to serve.")

When everybody is settled down and eating, Spencer stays in the kitchen to fix a plate for Brendon, who probably hasn't eaten all day. He also sets aside some leftovers in case Jon and Ryan come down later. They'll have to do it all again in the morning, another meal. At least the house is well-stocked. Spencer supposes Tom saw to that before they arrived.

There's nothing left to do in the kitchen for now so Spencer goes out and leans in the doorway of the dining room. He mostly wants to turn and head right upstairs, crawl into bed and hide until morning, but the kids are going to need places to sleep before he can do that. Some of the littler ones look like they're about to pass out face-down in their plates, but fear and suspicion are keeping them awake.

At the end of the table, Brendon is talking to Mikey, gesturing wildly with his good arm. Mikey is nodding and frowning slightly, and when Spencer wanders closer he hears that they're discussing beds and where to put the kids for the night. At least someone is thinking about it. Just down the table from the two of them, squished together on just three chairs, there are five boys, maybe thirteen or fourteen years old. They look like all gladiator trainees: wiry muscles and bruised faces, poised and tense and ready to fight. The tattoos inked on their arms are black and bold. All five of them are watching Brendon while he talks. They're not obvious about it, but they're not exactly hiding it either.

It's a little strange, actually. Spencer edges closer - they were fighting earlier, these kids, and Brendon's in no shape to defend himself if they try anything - but Brendon notices first.

"What?" he says, smiling a little uncertainly. "Do I have something on my face?"

A few of the kids look away quickly, but one of them narrows his eyes. He bites his lip, then asks quickly, "What'd you do to your arm?" It's not what he wanted to ask, that much is obvious, but the other kids are listening for the answer anyway.

"Oh, well." Brendon reaches up to rub his injured shoulder softly. "I, um. I got shot."

The kid's eyebrows fly up. "What'd you do that for?"

Brendon laughs a little. "I didn't do it on purpose. I guess I just pissed off the wrong soldiers."

As soon as he says it, he looks around a little wildly, but Toro is at the other end of the table, too far away to hear.

One of the kid's friends whispers something to him, and he squares his shoulders and asks, "What did you do?"

Brendon glances up quickly. Spencer hadn't realized Brendon knew he was there, but a quick smile quirks Brendon's lips. "I stole something," he says. "I broke into a fortress to steal something. It made them mad."

The kid's eyes get even wider. "They didn't kill you?"

"Well, they tried," says Brendon, rubbing the back of his neck. Spencer's fingers itch to do it for him, to massage the obvious tension out of his shoulders and back.

"Who are you?" the kid demands. "Are you _his_ \- " He jerks his chin toward Gerard down the table. "Are you his slave?"

"No," says Brendon firmly. "I'm not anybody's slave, and neither are you. Not anymore." The kid scowls skeptically, but Brendon only looks determined. "What's your name?"

The kid glances at his friends before answering, and there's a quick, whispered conversation. "Alex," he says finally. "Who are you?"

"I'm Brendon. And what about you guys? What are your names?"

Another whispered conversation, and Alex says, "They're all Alex too."

Brendon grins. "All five of you?"

"Yeah," the kid says defiantly. "We all have the same name. You gotta problem with that?"

"Heck, no," Brendon says, still smiling. "That just makes it easier for me to remember. I used to have a good friend named Alex. He's the best hunter I've ever known."

Alex - the first Alex - narrows his eyes suspiciously, but he seems to decide the conversation is over and turns back to his friends.

The meal finishes up eventually, and the Ways do their best to steer the kids upstairs. They don't really manage until the older gladiator Bryar speaks up again; the kids listen to him. Most of them are tired enough that the lure of an actual bed is stronger than their obvious distrust.

Spencer clears up dishes from the table and dumps them in a bucket of water in the kitchen. He's thinking about whether or not he wants to wash them when Brendon comes in behind him.

"They're so _young_ ," says Brendon. He shakes his head in amusement. "Did you see Gerard's face? I don't think he was thinking he'd ever have to deal with kids."

Spencer smiles a little at that; he had seen. "You seem okay with them."

Brendon gives a one-shouldered shrug. "Yeah, well. I used to teach kids sometimes."

"Teach?" Spencer repeats in surprise. "You did?"

"For, you know, owners who wanted their little darlings to be able to show off on the piano." Brendon smiles crookedly. "I guess playing the piano is supposed to make wealthy men want to marry them or something. Funny, it never seemed to work for me."

"I didn't - " Spencer stops. He didn't know that, but he hardly knows anything about Brendon's life. For all that Brendon talks, he has a way of not saying very much at all about certain things. Instead he says, "I'd like to hear you play, when your arm is better."

Brendon looks away for a moment, apparently very interested in the filmy surface of the water in the washbucket. "Maybe," he says. He's still smiling, but it's smaller, almost bashful. "Should we wash the dishes?"

"No," says Spencer. "We should go to sleep."

"But we - "

"In the morning." He puts a hand on Brendon's good shoulder and steers him toward the door. "We can do it in the morning."

"Okay," agrees Brendon. He doesn't pull away from Spencer's grip all the way through the hall and up the stairs to the third floor, but he hesitates when they reach the door of the room they'd slept in earlier. "Well, good night," he says, stepping away. He's not looking at Spencer at all. "I'll just - "

"You're going to leave me all alone?" Spencer tries to make is a casual question, but he can't help the pleading _please don't, please_ that rises to the top of his mind.

Brendon's eyes flick down the hall, toward the closed door to Jon's room. "You don't want - "

"Come on." Spencer slides his hand down Brendon's arm and takes his hand.

Brendon lets himself be tugged, and Spencer shuts the door behind them. He goes over to the bed and sits down, tugs off his boots and strips off his shirt. Brendon stands a few feet away, picking one-handedly at the buttons of his shirt. When he tries to pull it off, he winces and gasps in sudden pain.

"Hey," says Spencer, softly, not quite a whisper. "Come here, let me." Brendon steps over without a word, and Spencer reached to help him out of his shirt. He tries to be gentle, tries to be slow, careful not to twist Brendon's shoulder, but he can't help but brush his fingers over the skin of his chest. His ribs are still too prominent but not as much as they were when they crossed the mountains. The skin on the inside of his forearms is smooth.

Brendon stays unnaturally still, and he gasps slightly when Spencer rubs his thumb over a line of old, faded scars on Brendon's side. "This looks like it hurt," Spencer murmurs.

Brendon closes his eyes. "I was an annoying kid." He swallows, and Spencer watches his lips press together, the muscles in his throat work. "Always getting into trouble."

Spencer lays his open palm over the scars. _This is a bad idea._ Brendon is warm and too thin and Spencer can feel every breath through his hand. _This is a bad idea._ He pulls a little and Brendon steps forward until his knees bump into the bed. _Bad idea_. His eyes are still closed.

Spencer reaches up to wrap his other hand around the back of Brendon's neck, and Brendon's eyes stay closed, his lips parted slightly. Spencer can _feel_ how much he's trying to stay still, the tension and nervousness rushing just beneath his skin, and he - he doesn't want to think about it, he doesn't want to let go, he just _wants_ , he wants so fucking much.

The bed is high but sitting on it Spencer still has to stretch up. Brendon is standing, taller than him for once, but he bends easily when Spencer pulls him closer. He nudges his nose against Brendon's, against his cheek, and kisses the corner of Brendon's mouth, the lightest touch, and Spencer feels like there's nothing else, nothing except the sound of their breathing and Brendon's eyelashes dark against cheeks, one of his arms bent awkwardly between them and the other resting on Spencer's shoulder. Not a strong grip, a hesitant touch, like he's not sure he's allowed.

Brendon's breath hitches and he makes a sound like the beginning of a word, but Spencer turns quickly to kiss him. Harder this time, no doubt, no hesitation, he swipes his tongue over Brendon's lower lip and Brendon lets him in. He doesn't - he doesn't react at first, doesn't respond to Spencer's tongue, to Spencer's hand working into his hair. Spencer thinks _wait_ and _what's wrong_ and he leans away reluctantly.

"Spence." Brendon's eyes open. "Are we - what are we doing?"

Spencer lets go of Brendon's side, missing the feel of warm skin under his fingertips almost at once, and uses his hand to slide back on the bed. He doesn't move so far that he has to let go with his other hand. "Kind of obvious, isn't it?” he says. He doesn't think Brendon hears the faint shake in his voice, doesn't know himself if it means _excited_ or _scared_. "But you don't have to stand up the whole time."

There's no light in the room except from the window. Brendon's eyes are wide, dark, unreadable, and Spencer holds his breath, waiting. _Please don't leave._ He can tell, even in the dark, that every muscle is tense, that Brendon is half-coiled for flight. He can feel it through his fingertips on Brendon's neck. He doesn't know what Brendon's thinking but he knows the instant Brendon makes up his mind. It's only a moment, perfectly still and silent and _waiting_ -

Then Brendon lunges forward, an explosion of sudden motion, throwing his good arm around Spencer's neck and losing his balance as he tries to kiss him. "Ow, fuck, _ow_ \- " But he doesn't stop, just twists to free his left arm and kisses Spencer again. Spencer brings his arm up to catch him and keep him from toppling over. "What are - " Short, hungry kisses, _please_ , and through his trousers he can feel Brendon's cock hard against his leg but it's so fucking awkward, they need a better - "Spence, fuck, what are you - "

"Trying to - " Spencer's cut off when Brendon shoves forward again, crowding into him skin against skin, kissing him hard enough to knock his head into the headboard. " _Ouch_ , fuck, get your - "

"Sorry, sorry," Brendon gasps, running his hand through Spencer's hair, cradling the back of his head. "Can't quite - stupid arm."

"Let me - " He closes his eyes as Brendon kisses him again, runs both hands down Brendon's back and legs, hooks his hands under Brendon's thighs and pulls him onto the bed until he's straddling Spencer's legs. "Better?" He tries to - he wants - Brendon's not trying to get away, he's as close to Spencer as he can be, but Spencer wants him closer, one arm wrapped around Brendon's shoulders and the other hand slipped into his waistband at the small of his back.

He tries to roll his hips up. It's not easy with Brendon sitting on his thighs, but Brendon groans appreciatively against his mouth and moves his hand. Spencer's head hits the headboard again, and Brendon smiles into the kiss and murmurs, "This would be," and kind of _wriggles_ , god, the friction is so _fucking_ , "easier with," and he's working his hand between them, pulling open the front of Spencer's trousers and edging his fingers in, "two hands."

"I've got - " Spencer's got hands, he's got two of them, he can help, he can - " _Fuck_ ," his breath stutters and his hips jerk up as Brendon's fingers curl brush again his dick. The touch is soft, teasing, _maddening_ , and Spencer hisses, " _Fuck_ , Bren, you," his fingernails sliding over the sweat-slicked skin of Brendon's back. He breaks off, gasping, when Brendon bites his lower lip and closes his hand around his cock.

And it's, it's awkward, there's no room for Brendon's hand to move. He keeps shoving forward, closer, rising up on his knees, hard in his trousers and pressing Spencer against the wall, his motions short and jerky and rough and it's _amazing_ , the best fucking thing Spencer's ever felt. It's too fucking good to end but he's close, so close, tries to say, "I'm - Brendon - _you_ \- "

Brendon stops him with another kiss, messy and forceful, tiny desperate noises escaping as he licks his way into Spencer's mouth - then he's gone suddenly, pulled back, rocking against Spencer's thigh as his hand jerks faster, erratically. There's no rhythm and it's almost, it's almost _painful_ , but he's watching Spencer with dark eyes and his mouth is open and wet and Spencer wants, wants to kiss him again, he wants to, but at all once Brendon's tense all over, shuddering under Spencer's hands. And Spencer is coming, biting at his lip to keep from crying out, throwing his head back against the headboard so hard there's a loud crack.

When he can speak again, he says, "Ow."

Brendon laughs a little and slumps against him. He wipes his hand on the bed sheet and breathes against Spencer's chest, his mouth moving in tiny, wet strokes over his skin. "Should've used a pillow."

Spencer caresses slowly down Brendon's back, tracing the line of his spine and feeling him breathe. His fingers brush over the fabric of his trousers and, oh, that's probably not how this is supposed to work. "You're not even undressed."

Brendon doesn't move, but Spencer can feel him smile against his chest. "Didn't seem to matter."

"Maybe next time."

Brendon goes still for an instant, then his shifts again, pushing himself up. "I'll just - "

Spencer flattens his hand against Brendon's back. "Just what?"

"We should - "

But Spencer cuts him off with a kiss before he can finish. "Clean up," he says, when they break apart. "In a minute, okay? Just - in a minute." _Don't go. Please, please, don't go._

Brendon looks at him for a long moment. In the darkness Spencer can't see what he's thinking, nothing except his eyes open wide and his mouth - god, his mouth, Spencer isn't going to be able to _talk_ to Brendon anymore without thinking - but he's unsmiling now. That was never so much of a problem before, Brendon not smiling. Spencer brushes Brendon's sweat-dampened hair back from his face. "You okay?"

Brendon lies down again, his head on Spencer's chest, and he's so warm and _alive_. It can't be comfortable for him, his hurt arm tucked between them, but Spencer tightens his arms around him. "Okay?" he says again.

"In a minute," Brendon says.

Spencer wakes in the morning because the sun is shining through the window and the door of the room has just swung open and hit the wall with a sharp bang.

" - if you're going to sleep all fucking day, you should - Spencer?"

His eyes snap open. That's Ryan's voice, it's Ryan standing in the room, his eyes wide and his mouth open in shock and - _oh_. Brendon is waking up too, yawning hugely, his hair brushing over Spencer's chest as he moves and turns his head. He starts to ask, "What are you - "

But then he sees Ryan and stops abruptly, the rest of the sentence lost in a strangled gasp.

Ryan's mouth works silently for a few seconds. And he looks - he really looks like he's going to shout, that would even - Spencer _expects_ the shout, he's bracing for it.

But when Ryan speaks, his voice is so small Spencer can barely hear it. "What are you doing?"

Spencer sits up. Ryan's staring at them, eyes wide, and he looks like Spencer's _hit_ him, for a moment, so fucking hurt and lost. But then his head tilts up and his mouth goes pinched and narrow, and he makes an abortive movement that's not quite a step forward, not quite a step back, and ends up with him just folding his arms tightly across his chest. "Well?"

"Ryan," says Spencer, and fuck it, he's got no reason to feel guilty, none at all, so he _won't_. He swings his legs off the bed and stands up, tries not to feel self-conscious about the fact that he's shirtless and his trousers are stained from last night. Behind him Brendon shifts - the sheets rustle - and makes a soft, swallowed noise that probably means his shoulder's complaining after he slept in such an awkward position. Spencer wants to look round, wants to check he's all right, but he can't look away from Ryan's eyes, which are darkening with anger.

"What the _hell_ , Spencer," Ryan says, voice curling up like a whip.

Spencer cuts him off as he's drawing breath to follow that, to start shouting. "You have Jon," he says.

It takes an effort not to sound as scared as he feels. He's laying it all out there. Maybe he shouldn't have come right out and said it like that but it's what he's thinking, it's what he's been thinking for days. Ryan has Jon. Ryan wants everything at once, he always has, and that's what being free _means_ , it means you can _have_ -

So Spencer folds his own arms and meets Ryan's glare and it's maybe the hardest thing he's ever done, not dropping his eyes.

Ryan goes white when the words are out there and he stumbles back a pace, one of his hands clutching the doorjamb like he's not sure his legs will hold him. "I - oh," he says, almost a sigh, the air knocked out of him all at once.

Spencer blinks because he was expecting more shouting, he was expecting - and then he plays back the conversation in his head and realizes what Ryan heard. "No - I don't mean -" _You still have me, you'll always have me,_ he doesn't get the chance to finish, because Ryan's suddenly looking not at him, but past him, at the bed.

Brendon says in a choked, frightened voice, "No - please -"

Spencer turns. Brendon's managed to drag himself half-upright, using his good hand on the headboard to keep himself steady, and now he's up on his knees on the bed and looking straight at Ryan. "Don't," he says. "Don't fight, not over me, please don't." He looks over at Spencer. "I'm not -"

Ryan lets go of the doorjamb, standing up straight again. Some color's come back into his face now he's not looking at Spencer any more. "Who the fuck said you could talk?" he snaps.

Brendon's eyes go wide and he swallows visibly but falls silent, looking down. The hand on the headboard drops to rest on one of his thighs, curled into a loose fist.

" _Ryan_ ," says Spencer sharply.

"Spencer," says Ryan, his attention swinging back to him like a magnet. Spencer forgets about Brendon at once because Ryan's got a look in his eyes like a hurt animal or child, desperate and pleading and not understanding. When Spencer takes a couple of steps towards him Ryan visibly shakes himself, forcing his shoulders to loosen, and says again, "Spencer. I understand. I _understand_ , all right, but please, please, please, not him."

Brendon makes a small noise. Neither of them turns. "I should -" he begins.

"Don't move," says Spencer. _Please, please, don't leave me,_ the chorus is still there in his head, but he can't look away from Ryan's face, crumpling and defiant and so fucking sad. He can deal with Brendon later.

"Fuck, Ryan, no," he says, "I didn't mean -" He takes another step forward, and he's close enough to Ryan now that he can touch him, so he does, reaching out to brush his fingers against the skin of Ryan's forearm. Ryan flinches away and then composes his face into a sneer. Spencer's seen him put the mask up a thousand times before. It's never been for _him_. He drops his hand, an involuntary frustrated sound coming out of his throat.

"What did you mean, then?" Ryan says. "It seems pretty clear -"

"For fuck's _sake_ , Ryan!" Spencer shouts. "I love you, okay. I fucking _love_ you." He's never said it before, barely let himself think it in such a long time, but it's _there_ and Ryan should _know_. "But you can't make all the rules anymore. You can't. You don't -" He swallows. "You don't own me anymore."

Ryan makes a small, strangled noise that could mean anything. Spencer sees him tense up before he actually moves, so he lunges, doesn't let him, wraps his arms around Ryan's shoulders. "Please," he says, and he doesn't know what he's asking for. He kisses Ryan's temple. " _Please_."

Ryan is absolutely still for a long moment, and then his hands come up to clutch Spencer's forearms and he's pushing him away, just gently. Spencer lets himself be pushed, and Ryan doesn't let go of him once they're apart.

He doesn't quite look up, though.

"Not him," he says in a low voice. "Anyone else. Not him."

"What the fuck, Ryan? You were jealous of Butcher too," Spencer says, because he's pretty sure that's what it was, now, jealousy. "Don't -"

" _Anyone else_ , Spencer, I swear," says Ryan, meeting his eyes quickly, panicked, and his voice is shaking. "I swear I'll - _not him_." His right hand slips from Spencer's forearm down to his wrist, and he catches Spencer's hand and turns it, brings it to his mouth, presses a quick kiss to the palm. " _Please_."

Spencer hears the footsteps, and suddenly Jon's there, in the hallway behind Ryan. He's not looking at them. Jon says, " _Brendon._ " He shoves straight past them, across the room to the bed. "Brendon, don't do that."

Spencer blinks, because Brendon hasn't moved, Brendon's exactly where he's been since they woke up - and it's like the world comes into focus, and he's seeing Brendon all over again, exactly where he's been all along: on the bed, _kneeling, head down, hands flat on his thighs_ \- and shaking a little, from pain, maybe, or the effort of holding still, or both.

"Brendon, no," says Jon, and Spencer can't even form the words to echo him. _Brendon, no._

Ryan told him to be quiet. Spencer told him not to move. For a moment it's like there's something tightening around his chest and he can't even breathe.

Brendon doesn't move, maybe _can't_ move until Jon puts his arms around him and tugs. And then he slumps forward, one arm coming up to wrap around Jon's neck, his face hidden against Jon's collarbone, his shoulders shaking.

Spencer squeezes his eyes shut for a moment - _fuck fuck fuck fuck, oh god, I didn't mean, I didn't_ \- and then takes a step towards the bed.

Ryan lets go of him when he moves. "I," he says, and his voice shakes so much on the one syllable it's more like four. Then he shakes his head once, hard, whirls around in the doorway and runs. The sounds of his footsteps get fainter and then fade out altogether.

Spencer's first instinct is to follow him. But - _Brendon._ Jon looks up from where he's got his head tilted against Brendon's, his hand stroking Brendon's hair. Their eyes meet for a long, long moment.

"I should have taught you the sign language," says Jon at last. "Though it's not exactly for -"

Spencer nods.

Brendon makes a muffled noise and tries to pull away from Jon, but he's still shaking, and Jon just tightens his grip, rubs the back of his neck soothingly. "Shh," he says.

"I don't know what to do," says Spencer.

The room is quiet for a moment. Finally Jon says carefully, "I think maybe I should go after him."

Spencer closes his eyes. "Yeah."

When he opens his eyes again, nothing's changed. He sits on the bed and puts his hand on Brendon's good shoulder.

"I -" begins Jon, but he doesn't go on. He and Spencer stare at each other some more.

"Ryan's crazy, you know," says Spencer eventually. It comes out sounding something halfway between defensive and proud.

Jon nods. Then he looks meaningfully at Spencer's hand on Brendon's shoulder. Spencer understands and turns the touch into a proper hug, pulling Brendon away from Jon. Brendon lets himself be moved but doesn't try to shift at all, doesn't turn into Spencer's arms. Spencer doesn't know if it's possible to say _I'm so sorry_ with just a hug, but he can try.

Jon stands up to leave, pauses in the doorway. "I think you all are," he says.

"Crazy?" says Spencer.

Jon shrugs. "Maybe I am too."

Then he's gone, and Spencer rests his cheek softly on the top of Brendon's head. "Brendon..."

"You should go too." Brendon's voice is small and rough. He starts to slip out of Spencer's embrace. "He needs you too. You should go."

It hurts to say it, it's like a knife in his gut, but Spencer says, "Jon will take care of Ryan right now."

Brendon shakes his head. He's not looking at Spencer and he's edging farther away, using one hand to balance as he crawls on his knees. "No, don't touch me. Don't - you should go. He's right. He's right, it can't be - I don't have the right. It's all wrong. I'm all wrong. I'm sorry." The last two words come out as barely more than a whisper. Brendon won't look up. His head is bowed, his shoulders rigid, his voice hoarse, and he won't look up.

"I don't understand," says Spencer helplessly. He reaches to touch Brendon's face. He only wants him to look up, he wants to _see_ , but Brendon jerks away. "What is this about?" _Not him,_ Ryan said, _please, not him_. And Ryan, in spite of everything, doesn't focus his hatred without reason. Spencer must've missed something. Before, when he was captured, when he was hurt, maybe there was something. "Brendon, did something happen?"

Brendon lets out a choked sob and covers his mouth with one hand. His shoulders are shaking and there are tears gathering in his eyes, and Spencer only wants to hold him. But when he turns Brendon practically _flies_ off the bed as though it's on fire, tripping over his own feet and gasping in pain. He dashes several feet across the room and stops, hugging his good arm around his injured shoulder, and he still won't look up.

"I'm sorry," he says, the words shuddering from him. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have let him. There would've been another way. I should have stopped him but I - I - didn't want - I'm _sorry_ , god, so fucking -"

Brendon's entire body is shaking now, tears streaming down his face. He's kneading at his injured shoulder with his hand, and that's got to hurt, that's got to fucking hurt like hell, but he doesn't seem to know he's doing it. Spencer stands up - he only wants to make him stop, take Brendon's hands and hold them and make him stop _hurting himself_ \- but before he's taken two steps Brendon is stumbling backwards into the wall.

" _Brendon,_ " Spencer says desperately. "Please tell me. Please." He doesn't think twice about begging. He's so fucking lost and there's a cold dread knotting in his stomach. He's never seen Brendon like this, _never_ , so trembling and small, trying to vanish from his own skin, and he can't, he can scarcely stand to ask, but he has to. "Another way to do what? What happened?"

Brendon lets go of his hurt shoulder to scrub his hand over his face, sniffling and clearing his throat. "At the - at the Valdez house."

Spencer's memories of their stop at the Valdez house are nothing but a blur of pain and exhaustion, mind-numbing fear as he lied to the old man, rough rope biting into the skin of his wrists and briars scratching at his bare legs as he stumbled behind the horses. "What happened?"

"We should've done something else." Brendon's voice is flat. "That was a bad plan."

Spencer's chest hurts and he forces himself to breathe through it. "I know, I couldn't pretend, but we - "

"Not that," says Brendon dully. There are still tears on his face but he sounds empty now, hollowed out, and he's eerily still. "It wasn't your fault. It was - I shouldn't have made him pretend."

Spencer's mind stutters over _who_ to _him_ , and it clicks into place. "Ryan?" he says, his insides suddenly churning with fury. "Did somebody in that house touch him? Did they put their fucking hands on him?" He'd been there, right there in the house, sleeping in a fucking feather bed. Fuck the army, fuck the old man, he would have killed them fucking all if he'd known, if he hadn't been fucking _asleep_ , if he hadn't -

Brendon says, "No." It's a whisper, barely a word at all. "They didn't."

"Then what - "

"I did."

Spencer goes cold all over. " _What?_ "

"He said - he said they knew we were lying, and he was waiting. In the room. He said they knew, he said..."

"No," whispers Spencer. Oh, god. Not this. This has to be wrong. "You didn't - no, you didn't have to - "

"He, he said, and I..." Brendon lets out a strangled sob, swallows it back harshly. "I let him. I knew we didn't have to. But I didn't stop him."

Spencer feels like the room is spinning and he can't feel the floor, he can't see anything except Brendon hunched against the wall before him, his face splotched and streaked his tears. "Why?" he asks helplessly. "Why would you do that?"

To _Ryan_ , and Spencer knows how Ryan's mind works. He's seen the things Ryan will do to keep them safe, and he's imagined a thousand more Ryan never let him see, but he didn't think - he never suspected, never thought -

"How could you do that?" he asks. Even to his own ears it sounds more like a plea than question.

Brendon looks up. He meets Spencer's eyes, and Spencer hardly recognizes him.

"I'm sorry," he says.

He turns and he's gone, across the room and through the door before Spencer can blink.

Spencer stares at the empty doorway for a long time. He's aware of the sun creeping across the floor, the rough boards beneath his feet, a breeze from the window behind him. He's cold, so fucking cold, and somewhere in the house somebody is shouting and running. The kids, their too-loud voices and footsteps thundering down the long hallways.

Spencer turns around slowly. His shirt is on the floor. He bends down to pick it up, slips his arms into the sleeves, and slowly does up the buttons. He doesn't bother with his shoes.

He goes to look for Ryan, shutting the bedroom door carefully behind him.

[Chapter Twelve](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/3724.html)


	13. But Not the Song (12/17)

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**But Not the Song (12/17)**   
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[Story Index and Warnings](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/446.html)

[Chapter Eleven](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/3497.html)

  
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**xxvi.**   
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Jon's barely gone ten steps down the hallway when something makes him turn, some instinct or sixth sense that yells _danger!_

One of the gladiators, the one Gerard and Mikey carried in unconscious last night, is standing in a doorway, watching him. His stance is loose, open, his hands hanging by his sides in a way that's anything but relaxed; he's on the balls of his feet, leaning forward the slightest bit, all coiled energy. The look in his eyes -

Jon remembers crossing the border once to get to the Beckett place. It was him and Tom and Joe Trohman and a dozen newly-freed slaves, right back near the beginning when he and Tom had first joined. Joe had mostly been there to keep an eye on them. The second day in the mountains, they'd seen paw prints, and that afternoon as they'd passed a rocky outcrop one of the former slaves had pointed up to where a rangy mountain lion was crouched among the stones, watching them with a wary predator's glare.

The gladiator is short, even shorter than Jon - and Jon's not a big guy by any means - but Jon thinks, if it came to a fight, he'd have a better chance against the wildcat.

The man isn't wearing a shirt. There are tattoos inked all over him, different trainers' marks and school sigils twining around each other all the way up his arms, over his shoulders, even onto his chest and back. There's even one on his neck, half-hidden under the fall of his dark hair.

"How many places did you even fight for?" Jon asks incredulously, without thinking.

The gladiator smirks, showing teeth. "I'm trouble."

Jon licks his lips nervously. He wants to walk away from this conversation right now, run after Ryan - he doesn't even know where Ryan's gone, it could be anywhere, this house sprawls in a dozen directions and he hasn't seen all of it - but he really doesn't feel comfortable turning his back on this guy. "Nice to meet you, Trouble," he says, trying not to sound nervous about it. "I'm Jon."

To his surprise, the man starts laughing, dropping out of his ready stance and leaning back against the wall as he giggles. And that giggle - it's _really_ not the sound Jon would have expected out of him, and it makes him about ten times less intimidating. "Iero," he says after a minute, wiping his eyes. "Frank. You're kind of funny."

"Um," says Jon. He doesn't really know what to say to that. "This is -"

"Cobra, safehouse, everyone free, got it. Heh." Iero grins at him again. "Even me. And I'm also pretty sure that none of you have any idea what you're doing, right?"

Jon folds his arms. "I do. We -"

"But no one else, right?" repeats Iero. "Definitely not that lord. Or his brother. I've been talking to Bob."

Jon pauses, then shrugs. It's not like they can hide it.

Iero nods as if that's confirmed something for him. "I saw you, you know," he says. "When they brought you in. You and your friend."

And _fuck_ he's not expecting that, it feels like a punch to the gut ( _a shot in the head_ ) and Jon stumbles back a pace, his throat closing up. He can't answer.

Iero shakes his head. He doesn't look sympathetic or pitying or sorry in any way at all, he just looks like - he looks like he _knows_. "Those fuckers," he says simply, and adds with some quiet, fierce satisfaction, "Probably all dead now, or wish they were. The kids say your sneaky lady gave 'em knives when she let them out."

Jon nods mutely. He can't - he wouldn't have been able to –

He doesn't know what the man who killed Tom looked like, anyway.

"So I'm told we're going to bury the bodies," Iero says, after an expectant pause in which Jon still hasn't said anything. "Clean things up. Maybe burn the whole place down. Are you coming?"

"Of course," says Jon, and he swallows. _The bodies_. "No one else knows what the hell they're doing."

"They're leaving in half an hour or something," says Iero.

Half an hour. That's - that's too soon, probably. Jon still has to find Ryan, but he has no _idea_ where to look.

Iero shifts his weight to the other foot. "Are you looking for the steward guy?"

"He's not a steward," says Jon.

"Yeah," says Iero. "I got that. He went upstairs. I don't think he saw me. He looked -" He shrugs. "Yeah."

"Thanks," says Jon, and turns away. He hears Frank turn in the other direction as he goes, towards the main staircase and the front hall, where it sounds like the kids are still shouting and messing around.

Jon hesitates at the foot of the stairway to Helena's suite, and then takes the stairs two at a time.

There's a door at the top: it's closed, but there's no dust on the handle. Jon's unsurprised. He suspects both Way brothers come up here fairly often. He pushes the door open and it moves silently. It sounds like it's maybe the only door in the house which has had the hinges oiled in the last ten years.

It opens onto what looks like a lady's salon. There's a faint floral smell hanging in the air, like very old perfume. The floor is carpeted wall-to-wall, and there's a fine woven rug in front of the fireplace. Some of the furniture, straight-backed chairs and a chaise lounge, is upholstered to match, but there's also a coffee table with a chipped surface, and a couple of deep armchairs piled high with cushions that don't match anything, not even each other. There are bookcases against the opposite wall, stuffed with as many books as will fit, and more books heaped on the floor beside them. One of the rooms Jon's seen elsewhere in the house is an ex-library, stripped almost completely bare, and it looks like this is where the contents ended up.

On the mantelpiece over the fireplace there's a hinged pair of frames with a portrait on each side: two painted boys in frilly collars, one staring wide-eyed out at the room, the other with his head turned, looking solemnly towards the first. It takes Jon a moment to place them, and then it's obvious. They're Gerard and Mikey.

There are two doors. Jon catches a glimpse of what looks like a bedroom through one, but he ignores it. Through the other door he can hear breathing, loud and ragged and a little choked, not quite sobs but close.

The second room is huge, maybe as long as the house, with windows all the way down the wall. Sunlight is streaming in, picking out the grooves and shadows on the bare wooden floor, lighting up the dozens of pictures hung on the walls, the half-finished canvases propped at one end of the room. Some of them are leaning against a narrow writing desk, and everything is more or less clean. The only room Jon's seen that was half as well looked-after was the music room.

Ryan's fled to the far end. He's tucked himself into a corner, head buried in his arms. The sunlight illuminates him as well, lighting up his hair, his fingers wrapped around his knees, the bent line of his neck. His harsh breathing sounds even louder in the echoing length of the room, but when Jon takes a couple of steps towards him, shoes making too much noise on the wooden floor, he says, "Sorry," at once. His voice is mostly level, almost clear. He doesn't look up.

"Ryan?" says Jon.

Ryan's head jerks up in shock. There's a line of angry, purple bruises around his neck and, fuck, Jon doesn't remember seeing those last night. He should have asked what happened at the slave camp. It's supposed to be his job to know.

"Oh -" Ryan says. "I thought - sorry. I thought it was Lord Way." He pauses. "Could you - go away?"

Jon covers the rest of the space between them in about four seconds and then he's standing over Ryan. And fuck, that won't do, so he slides down the wall and sits beside him instead. He doesn't touch him. Ryan's gone stiff and frozen, staring at his own knees: Jon doesn't think he'd welcome a hug right now.

After a moment Ryan makes a noise, a strangled laugh. "That's not exactly going away."

"I'm not going to," says Jon.

Ryan turns to look at him.

Jon says, "Please, Ry - I'm not going to."

There's silence for a moment.

Ryan sighs and looks back at his knees again. Jon takes it the way it's meant and slides sideways a little, putting his arm around Ryan's shoulders. "What happened?" he asks. He was able to put some of it together, from what he saw: Spencer in Brendon's room, half-dressed, and Ryan's wild eyes, and his mouth against Spencer's hand while Brendon knelt frozen on the bed. Jon feels like he ought to be able to supply the rest of the puzzle, and yet it doesn't really make sense no matter which way he turns it.

Ryan closes his eyes. His hands clench spasmodically into fists, white-knuckled, and then relax again. He's left tiny little circles on the skin of his palms, white indents from his fingernails.

"You and Spencer?" hazards Jon at last.

It's tough, it's tough to say it, but that's got to be - that's _got_ to be part of it, Ryan lips pressed into Spencer's palm, and it's not like he didn't guess. It's not like he didn't ask Brendon about it the very first time he saw the two of them together. They've been everything to each other for years, together through things Jon can barely bring himself to imagine, and - and who's Jon, anyway?

But Ryan says, "No." And then he shakes his head, swallowing another hysterical laugh. "He - no. Or, or yes. Maybe. I don't know!" He shifts closer to Jon, unfolding from his huddled position a little so he can lean. Jon brings up his other arm automatically, turns it into a hug. "I thought," says Ryan to his collarbone, but he doesn't finish the sentence.

Jon holds him tighter, wants to say _fuck, Ry,_ wants to say _don't, don't be unfair,_ wants to say _any idiot can see he loves you_. But Ryan's got his hands braced on Jon's biceps, and he's taking a deep breath and moving back, just a little, enough that Jon can see his face, his wide eyes, and somehow what comes out of Jon's stupid mouth is, "Can I kiss you?"

Ryan flinches and looks away, and then he's pulling away and standing up. He folds his arms as he stands over Jon and doesn't meet his eyes. "Why would you want to?" he says, and what's in his voice - Jon can't tell if it's misery or disgust or _fury_. Ryan tosses his head, pushes his hair back out of his face, and then he looks at Jon again and there's nothing on his face but a sneer. "Why the _fuck_ would you want to?" he repeats.

Jon's breath catches. Then he's scrambling to his feet, he can't move fast enough, and he's saying, "Ryan - Ryan - " desperately over the sound of Ryan remarking conversationally, a snap of anger behind the words, "I mean, I'm a pretty good fuck, so they tell me. We could cut to the chase, if you know what you want, Jon, we could -"

" _Ryan_ ," says Jon, nearly shouts it, and he's on his feet _finally_. He grabs Ryan's wrists and shoves him against the wall, hands pinned up by his shoulders. Ryan falls silent at last, thank _fuck_ , but he's staring at Jon with an expression that's almost satisfied, his wrists tense and quivering under Jon's hands. He doesn't try to get away.

"Ryan," Jon repeats more quietly, feeling drained suddenly, and he lets go. Ryan watches him silently and doesn't move, leaving his hands where they are against the wall. "I – I want to," says Jon at last. "I want to kiss you, Ryan, please."

Ryan still won’t drop his hands. There’s nothing holding him, nothing stopping him from moving or getting away, but he stays absolutely still, and the expression on his face is almost a smirk. Jon lifts a hand to touch the sharp line of his jaw, thinks better of it, and drops it again. He keeps his hands by his sides as he leans in, curled nervously into fists.

Ryan's mouth is a hard unyielding line, and he still doesn't move, even though it's got to be awkward to keep his arms in that position, forced back.

There's an ache starting up in Jon's chest, low and dark and painful.

"All right," he says, breaking the kiss and stepping back, putting a good foot of space between them. "All right. I guess I should - I'm going to go."

He turns away, not wanting to see Ryan's reaction - his nonreaction.

"Where," says Ryan behind him before he can take a step. Just that one flat syllable, not resolving into a question. Jon closes his eyes.

"We're going back to the slavers' camp," he says. "One last time. To clean up. And - to bury the bodies."

There's a long, long pause, and then Ryan says raggedly, " _Jon_."

Jon turns in spite of himself, knows he shouldn't but he can't help it, not when Ryan sounds like that. Ryan's moved at last, one hand dropped by his side, the other outstretched halfway between them like he's not even aware of it.

"Don't worry about it," Jon says brusquely. "I'm _fine_." He's never felt less fine in his life.

Ryan takes a step toward him - they're standing toe to toe, so close - and repeats, "Jon," softer, and Jon doesn't even know how it happens but they're kissing. Ryan's got both hands in Jon's hair and Jon's hands are on Ryan's waist and the back of his neck and it's not gentle, it's not gentle at all. It's messy and hungry and Ryan's tongue is licking into his mouth and it's, _god_ , so good.

They're both panting when they break apart. Ryan licks his lips - his bottom lip is full and red and slick with spit, Jon can't _not_ stare - and says, "I'm sorry."

 _Not for the kiss_ , Jon supplies in his head, because Ryan hasn't backed away. He nods. "It's okay."

"I'll - let me come with you," Ryan says. "Let me."

"Okay," says Jon. "Okay."

They walk close together but not quite touching, out of the studio, out of the salon, closing the door to Helena's suite behind them before they go down the stairs. Jon turns towards the hallway that leads to the entry hall. "You and Spencer," he says.

Ryan bites his lip, and nods.

All right. "All right."

Ryan looks nervous, so Jon reaches for his hand, tangles their fingers together. They walk a little further.

"You -" says Jon, just before they reach the ridiculous grand staircase. There are people gathered around the door: Toro and the Ways, Iero, a couple of the older rescued kids, and Bryar with his arms folded, exuding menace. No Spencer, no Brendon. Jon's relieved.

Ryan looks at him.

"You were jealous," says Jon.

He just wants to be clear. But Ryan pales suddenly and snatches his hand away, stumbling back.

"I don't want _Brendon_!" he hisses.

Jon stares at him, because what? Of course not, that's not what he meant at all.

And then he stares some more, because there are two spots of color burning high on Ryan's cheeks, and his eyes are bright, and he's lying.

He's not even lying _well_. Jon sees him realize it and wince. "I -" he begins, but they're already at the head of the staircase, and the others have seen them.

"Jon!" calls a voice Jon can't place for a moment - Iero - and Jon doesn't know what to do, so he grabs Ryan's hand again and gives it a squeeze, and then drags him down the stairs behind him. "Let's go," he says to the small crowd waiting at the bottom.

There are birds circling the slavers' camp when they reach it, gliding dark specks against the flawless blue sky. From the hill above, the farm looks deceptively peaceful in the morning light. There's no smoke rising from the buildings, no sign of activity. From a distance Jon can see a few bodies lying on the ground, tossed around the barn and fenced ring like ragdolls, unmoving.

All the slaves have scattered, and if there were any guards left alive they're long gone as well.

They reach the fence and step into what's left of the camp. The gate is open, and from this close the bodies have faces, pallid skin and dead eyes and blood dried brown on slit throats. _This was your plan_ , Jon thinks, watching Gerard and his brother step carefully across the ground. _This is what you knew was going to happen._ Gerard looks ill, but he isn't saying a word, and Mikey has wandered several feet away, toward the edge of the forest. Toro is frowning slightly and squinting in the sunlight, but Jon can't tell if he's thinking about the deaths or merely assessing how much work has to be done. He's a soldier. A dozen or so dead slavers is probably far from the worst he's ever seen.

Bryar and Iero and the young slaves, they're all waiting in a tight group, arms crossed over their chests, none of them speaking.

Jon doesn't say anything. If there are orders to give, he's not going to be the one to do it. He looks around until he finds Ryan and walks over slowly. Ryan is standing over one body, looking down with an impassive expression. Much too young to be a guard, marked with the tattoo of a single gladiator school, it's a boy, about thirteen years old. He has a bloody knife in one hand and a bullet hole in his chest.

Jon stands behind Ryan silently. About twenty feet away a black bird settles on the head of one dead guard, and Iero throws a stone at it. Then he says something to the others, too low for Jon to hear, and they break apart from their tight group. Getting to work, Jon realizes after a moment. He'll have to remember that. It's good to know who the others will listen to.

"There was this boy," says Ryan suddenly. There's a trace of surprise in his voice, as though he didn't expect to be speaking at all. When Jon looks at him his lips are closed in a tight line. His hair is falling over his eyes and with the sun at his back he's shadowed and frail, too still and too quiet for this bright morning.

Jon waits, and reminds himself not to hold his breath.

"He was - also. In the caravan, in the wagon where I - where they put us." Ryan glances at Jon, so quickly Jon would have missed it if he wasn't already watching Ryan, already entranced. Jon nods. He knows what Ryan means. "He stole a knife from one of the guards. The guards got careless when they - sometimes."

"What did he do?" asks Jon.

Ryan jerks his shoulders sharply. "He cut his own wrists. He didn't even try to escape. He just gave up."

Jon nods again and remains silent. He wants to reach out and touch Ryan, take his hand, pull him close, but he can't bring himself to move.

Ryan prods the dead boy's knife with the toe of his boot, presses the tip into the ground. "He was a fucking idiot, to waste that chance."

Jon guesses what Ryan's not saying. "You didn't have many chances."

"We weren't very good at escaping." Ryan looks up at the birds overhead and shades his eyes against the morning sun.

Before Jon can think of a thing to say in reply, somebody says, "Jon."

Jon looks around quickly. It's Mikey. His voice is quiet but it carries, and he's standing at the edge of an open grave.

"Yeah?"

It's Gerard who answers, and what he says is, "I'm sorry."

Jon takes one breath, two - it's like his body has forgotten how - and he forces himself to walk over to the grave.

For a moment, standing at the edge, he feels like his knees are going to give way, but they don't. They should, but they don't. He stares down into the shallow pit. Four bodies. Three of them are gladiators - two adult men, one kid - killed in the riot while Jon was being rescued.

The fourth -

They've just thrown him in there, face down in the mud. One of his legs is bent at an awkward, impossible angle. Jon draws in a breath, and then another one. A hand lands on his shoulder.

"I'm so sorry," says Toro.

Jon nods. He can't speak.

It's not like Toro could have known.

They were careless.

Those women -

No, they were careless. _He_ was careless.

"I don't." His voice doesn't sound like him anymore. "Not there. I don't want to leave him there."

"Hell, no," says someone - Iero, it's Iero. "We're giving our people a real sendoff for once."

Jon looks up - thank _fuck_ , a reason to look away. Iero's standing a few feet away, watching, waiting. Bryar and the slave kids have gathered up most of the bodies, dragging them into a couple of piles nearby. Jon doesn't need to ask to know that they've kept the slavers and the slaves separate. There's a third pile too: weapons, taken from both sets of bodies.

While he watches, Bryar walks over to the boy Ryan was staring at, the one with the knife, and picks the corpse up like it weighs nothing, like it _is_ nothing. Jon supposes maybe it is, now. Bryar carries it to the pile of the dead carefully, though, as if the kid can still be hurt. He's got no expression on his face. Ryan watches him the whole time.

A crow lands on one of the fenceposts of the corral in a rustle of dark feathers, and caws.

Jon turns back to the open grave, tucking his hands into his trouser pockets and bowing his head. If he closes his eyes he still doesn't have to look.

"Come on, man," says Iero beside him.

Jon doesn't open his eyes at first, but he hears the thump as Iero jumps into the grave, and then he looks. Iero's already got his hands hooked under the armpits of the kid's body.

"What are we going to do?" says Gerard nervously. "I mean, I suppose we should dig graves for them all, but it'll take a while, and I don't -"

"No," says Jon. He tilts his head up, looks at the clear blue sky. It's going to be a beautiful day. It's going to be a beautiful spring. "No," he repeats. "We'll burn them. We'll burn everything."

"That's the way," says Iero, hauling the kid's body out of the pit. Going back in for the next. The man he drags out has a tattoo on his shoulder that matches one of Iero's. Same school.

"But -" says Ryan.

Jon looks at him. He's standing several feet away, watching Jon helplessly. He shakes his head nervously under Jon's gaze.

"But - are you sure?" he says.

Jon thinks about it. Thinks about building a pyre and putting Tom on it. In his head there's no one else, none of the other dead. The flames lick up over the wood and seize eagerly onto Tom's clothes first, singe his hair, blacken his fingernails, before they leap higher, belching smoke, swallowing him.

"No," he says to Ryan. "No, I'll - I'll dig a grave." Everyone is looking at him, even the kids, expressions all over the scale from pitying to sympathetic to blank. Jon just feels numb. He rubs his hand across his face and it comes away wet.

"I can help," Ryan says.

"We'll all -" begins Gerard.

"No," says Ryan sharply. "No, just me."

Jon nods. "Thanks. Thank you."

He has to do this himself, even though he thinks Iero's ready to do it for him, can see it in the way he stands, waiting, between the last two bodies in the grave. He jumps down - it's not deep - and crouches, puts his hand on Tom's shoulder.

He's cold. Of course he's cold. Jon has seen corpses before. When he turns the body over, Tom's face is dirty, mud caked into his hair, blood all around the hole in his forehead and smeared across his temple.

His eyes are open. Jon closes them with gentle fingers, and his hands are almost steady, and his eyes are almost dry, and the lump in his throat could be worse, could be worse.

Iero helps him lift the body up and drag it out of the pit. No one has a spade, but Bryar silently turns and walks towards one of the farm buildings, returning a few moments later with two. Ryan takes them.

"There's other stuff in there," says Iero. "Weapons. Supplies. We should take them, before we start setting fires."

Toro stumbles over his agreement. The others get to work.

Jon walks to the farm gate and hesitates before he leaves the property altogether, but he's not leaving Tom there. He's not burying him on the land where he was murdered. It's only a fence, but it matters. There's a tree a couple of yards off the road, a young ash. Ryan follows him out of the gate and hands Jon one of the spades.

They dig. It's not too bad; the ground's not particularly rocky. The tree's roots present a couple of problems, and Ryan's not much good at digging, but by the time the sun begins to sink in the sky, they've dug a grave. Ryan hasn't said anything the whole time. Jon's grateful for that. He doesn't think he could take anyone trying to be comforting right now.

When they go back to the farm, the others are waiting for them. They've built two pyres in the middle of the corral - the slavers still separate from their victims - and most of the shabby buildings look semi-dismantled, the thatched roofs ripped down for kindling. Tom's body is lying next to the filled-in grave, and someone has tried to clean him up a little, get the worst of the mud and gore off his face. Jon supposes he's grateful for that too.

Toro helps him carry the body out to the grave. Jon stares down for a long minute once they've lowered it in, and his vision blurs a little. He knows the tears are pouring down his face, and he can't stop them, can't make a sound. Ryan puts a hand on his shoulder, and Jon squeezes his eyes shut and then opens them again.

The first shovelful of soil makes a soft noise when it lands. The wood of the spade's handle is rough against his hands.

"And it's over, motherfuckers," murmurs Iero somewhere behind him. Jon doesn't turn to look until he's finished filling the grave in, but when he does every building behind him is engulfed in fire.

He breaks the spade over his knee when he's done. It doesn't make him feel any better.

Then he turns to look, watch with the rest of them, while the flames climb high and the slavers' camp burns.

_

 _  
**xxvii.**   
_

Nobody says much as they walk back to the Ways' estate. Ryan walks beside Jon, close enough to let their shoulders brush every few steps, but he doesn't say anything.

It's nearly dark by the time they reach the house, and as soon as they step inside the rescued kids who stayed back start to call out greetings and questions from the dining room. Ryan's a little surprised they're still here. He expected half of them to run at the first opportunity, taking anything that looks valuable with them. But he knows gladiators are different from other slaves. They live together, train together, fight together, and these kids obviously trust Bryar and Iero quite a lot. He doesn't know _what_ Bryar and Iero have told them, but it's apparently enough to keep them hanging around.

Hanging around and making a lot of noise. Beside him Jon stumbles a little, and Ryan reaches out to catch his elbow. They're both tired and filthy, dirt under their fingernails and the acrid scent of smoke in their hair, and Ryan isn't thinking of anything except getting Jon upstairs, away from all the noise and commotion. Jon doesn't protest. He doesn't even seem to notice Ryan steering him toward the stairs.

"Where did you go?"

Ryan stops a few feet from the bottom of the stairs, still holding Jon's elbow firmly. Spencer is standing in the doorway that leads to the kitchen. He's holding a knife in one hand and the hair around his face is damp with sweat; he must be cooking again. He's also staring at Ryan with an expression that's - _shit_ , he looks scared, and angry, and relieved. It's twilight and they've been gone all day and nobody said anything to Spencer before they left. _Shit_.

Before Ryan can make his tongue work, Toro answers, "Back to the camp, to take care of the bodies."

"Oh." Spencer shifts his weight. He's not looking at Ryan anymore. "The kids said - they didn't know. I didn't know." He looks guilty, like he feels bad for letting them know he was worrying, and suddenly Ryan's chest hurts and his face feels hot. _Sorry_ , he thinks. _I left without telling you and you didn't know and I'm sorry_. But the words are caught in his throat and he can't do anything except stare while Spencer looks awkwardly at his feet.

"We should have said," Mikey says kindly, pushing by Jon and Ryan to go up the stairs. "Where's Brendon?"

Ryan flinches. He doesn't know if anybody notices.

Spencer gestures toward the ceiling. "Music room."

Mikey nods and jogs up the stairs, and Ryan tells himself he's not straining to hear the sound of music from above. He doesn't want to hear, so he isn't listening, wondering why there's no sound. He's not.

"Do you have a minute?" says Toro, looking directly at Spencer. "I want to talk to you."

Spencer's head snaps up, and he's not fast enough to hide the flicker of terror that flashes over his face. But it's gone quickly, replaced by a cool, indifferent mask "No," he says. "I'm making dinner." He turns and hurries away.

"Ray," says Gerard. It sounds like a question, maybe a warning.

"I have to leave in a week or so, Gee," says Toro apologetically, "and it's better if I know what's going on before I do."

"You already do," says Gerard. "The important parts anyway." But he doesn't offer any more argument.

 _Leave_. Leaving means going back to the army. Ryan had almost forgotten. No, he _had_ forgotten. Toro's been helping and he hasn't said anything, but now he's going to leave and he wants to talk to Spencer and he's the _army_. He's the army.

Ryan's heart is trying to hammer out of his chest. "What do you want?" he blurts out. He didn't give the words permission to form, but now that they're out he can't stop. "What do you want? What are you going to do?"

Toro glances at the doorway where Spencer has gone. "I just want to - "

Ryan takes two long steps to put himself between Toro and the kitchen door. "Leave him alone."

Jon places his hand on Ryan's arm. "Ryan - "

"No," says Ryan. He shakes Jon's hand off, then immediately wishes he hadn't. "You can ask me. Whatever it is, you can ask me. Leave him _alone_."

Toro looks at him steadily. "Is there somebody looking for him?"

Fear slams into Ryan so strongly it's like a physical blow. " _No_. You can't - you _can't_ take him away, I won't - " _Let you_ , but what can he do to stop it? He couldn't before, they dragged Spencer away and he couldn't stop them. There was nothing he could do. He swallows painfully and flinches when Jon touches his arm again. "You can't take him away again."

"Again?" says somebody - maybe it's Iero, Ryan doesn't turn to look.

"Take him?" Toro says. "Fuck, I'm not going to - _no_ , fuck, that's not what I'm saying."

"You can't," Ryan repeats, quiet, pleading.

"I won't. I'm not. Fuck, Ryan, I _won't_." Toro runs a hand through his hair, twisting it into wild disarray. "Do you think I don't see how fucking scared he is of me?"

Jon takes a step forward, sliding his hand down to grab Ryan's. "He has good reason. So tell us. What are you going to do?" He sounds perfectly calm but there's steel in his voice. Ryan is so ridiculously grateful Jon is taking charge; he feels a little weak in the knees.

"I don't know," says Toro. "I honestly don't know."

"If you were going to drag anybody away from here, it would be me," Jon points out reasonably. Ryan tightens his grip on his hand. "A fugitive's worth a lot more than an escaped slave."

"He's not doing that," says Gerard. "Nobody's dragging anyone anywhere, okay? This is a _safehouse_. That means it's safe. Ray. _Tell_ them."

"It won't be safe if people start talking," says Toro. "Lyn and Jamia have things well in hand, but somebody in the village is going to talk. If word gets out... We've already drawn too much attention to ourselves."

Jon raises an eyebrow. "We?"

Toro says, "It's easy enough to plant false reports spotting a dangerous fugitive miles from here. I just need to know if I need to do that for a hunted slave as well." He glances at Ryan quickly. "Or slaves."

Jon looks at Ryan, then back at Toro. "I don't think that'll be a problem. It's just me they'll be looking for."

"Any idea where?"

"I'll tell you what I know." Jon squeezes Ryan's hand once before letting go. _Don't worry about it_ , maybe, or _I'll take care of it_. Whatever he means, it's reassuring, and Ryan takes a breath for what feels like the first time in hours.

Jon goes to speak with Toro, and the others scatter around the house. Ryan stands still in the hall for a long while. _Go on._ Spencer should know. He should know he doesn't have to be scared of Toro anymore. _So go tell him._ But he didn't tell Spencer earlier, when they left the house. Left without a word, because Tom is dead and Jon needed help and Ryan was running away like a fucking coward, because Spencer was - because - _Brendon_ , the bed and bare skin and the memory of hands in his hair and bitterness on his tongue and firelight at his back and -

He's standing in the kitchen before he realizes it, blinking in the sudden heat. Spencer is alone. He's standing over a large pot, frowning sternly and stirring the contents with a wooden spoon.

"You should have got one of the kids to help you," says Ryan.

Spencer starts and drops the spoon, curses colorfully as he reaches in to pull it out. "I don't need help," he says. He doesn't look at Ryan.

"You don't have to do it all yourself."

"I don't need help." His voice is tighter now, sharper.

"Toro's leaving soon."

Spencer goes still.

"I don't think..." Ryan rubs a hand over the back of his neck. "I think he's going to help. I don't think..."

"You don't think."

"Jon doesn't either."

"Oh, well. Jon."

Ryan really wants Spencer to turn around and look at him. "He knows. He knows you're - _we're_ escaped, and he's - "

Spencer doesn't turn, but Ryan sees his shoulders go tense. "How?"

"He guessed. He figured it out. I don't know. It doesn't - does it matter, how?" Ryan asks impatiently. "The point is, he knows, and he's going to help anyway."

There's a long silence, then Spencer says tiredly, "I knew he would see. I'm not very good at - at acting like I should."

"What? No, Spencer, that's not - " Except it probably is, at least a little bit. Ryan feels guilty for just thinking it; there's no way Spencer can know how to act like a free man. "It's only because he was looking. He was already suspicious."

"They weren't," says Spencer quietly. "They weren't already suspicious, but I couldn't convince them. At the Valdez house."

Ryan stops breathing and dark spots dance in front of his eyes. "What - what does that - "

"Brendon told me," Spencer says. "About what happened."

"Why... He shouldn't..." Ryan's voice cracks, and he takes a breath, tries again. "Why -" Brendon told him. Spencer knows, Spencer _knows,_ and he still won't turn around. He won't even look at Ryan, and he _knows_. "He had no right," he bites off, anger rising up in him like a cold, black tide. "He had no fucking right. I fucking hate him, he should keep his fucking mouth shut. That's not - that's not for you to know, you can't see -that's not _anything_ , it was just a stupid fucking - " Ryan takes a few steps but the kitchen is too small to pace, too confined, and he can't walk anywhere near Spencer. He can't _look_ at Spencer. " _Why_? Why the fuck did he tell you, why did you listen? Did you want to know how good I am at sucking cock? I could've told you that, if you wanted. I'm fucking brilliant with my mouth, you know, everybody says so. I could've fucking told you, you only had to ask. He didn't have to - he didn't have to -"

The words run out of Ryan all in a rush, and he stops moving abruptly. He stumbles back until he's leaning against the wall, no longer trusting his legs to hold him up. His vision is blurry and he wraps his arms around himself, tries to stop trembling.

Then Spencer is right beside him. Not touching, not that close, but close enough that Ryan can feel his warmth, his breath on his skin, how carefully still he's holding himself.

"No, Ryan," Spencer says softly. "That's not why he told me."

Ryan closes his eyes. "I hate him," he says raggedly, choking on the words. "I fucking hate him."

He feels Spencer move, closing the small distance between them. He feels Spencer's fingers on his face - he's not crying, he never cries, he doesn't know what Spencer is brushing away - and then Spencer's arm around his shoulders, turning him into a hug. Ryan lets himself be pulled. He keeps his eyes closed and tucks his face against Spencer's shoulder.

"I hate him," he says again. It barely comes out as words at all, only a wet sob against Spencer's shirt. "I hate him."

Spencer runs his fingers through Ryan's hair and doesn't say anything at first. And when he speaks, he only says, "Would it be better if that was actually true?"

Ryan goes still, and after a moment Spencer tries to step away. Ryan won't let him, holding on. "Ryan?" Spencer says.

A kind of hiccupping laugh breaks out of him, and he shakes his head, not looking up. His hair makes a soft sound as it brushes against Spencer's shirt, his chin, and Spencer's arms tighten around him, worried. "I hate," Ryan says, wishing his voice was steadier, "I really fucking hate how well you know me, sometimes."

"Ryan," says Spencer again, trying to pull away again. "I -"

"I didn't mean that," says Ryan. "Don't. Just -"

He adjusts his stance so he's holding as well as being held, and clings to Spencer for another couple of minutes, keeping his face hidden in Spencer's shirt even though it's now kind of damp. He can feel how hesitant Spencer is, how tense, but he lets Ryan do it. "Okay," Ryan says at last, stepping away, meeting Spencer's eyes. "Okay."

He swallows. Spencer says, "Ryan, it's all right, don't -"

Ryan's had enough of this. He's had enough. He doesn't want to be such a, such a fucking - he can be brave. Spencer has been, is being, _stupidly_ brave, so he can too. Especially when it's just Spencer, who knows him, and won't leave him.

But he doesn't know where to begin. He swallows again and folds his arms. He sort of wants to go wash his face, to wash the dirt from earlier ( _and the tearstains_ ) away. Then he can come back as someone else, someone who didn't just crack, and Spencer will let him do it.

He won't. It's too tempting, so he won't. Instead he takes a deep breath and says, "Do you remember that day in the apple orchard?"

Spencer's eyes go wide but he nods a little bit, says, "You kissed me."

That's right. That's what happened. They'd been - fourteen, fifteen? Not long before - before. Ryan mostly remembers the light breeze, fingercombing grass out of his own hair before dinner.

"Right," he says. "Right." And he stops, stuck. "I..." he manages at last, "I was someone different then," and, "I thought you'd forget."

"Like _hell_ I'd forget," says Spencer. "You kissed me and you never -" He looks nervous now. "Ryan, what - are you -"

"Let me finish," says Ryan, and shit, that sounds too much like - like an _order_. That's not how it is anymore, so he adds, "Please?"

He waits until Spencer nods. Then he gulps and unfolds his arms, folds them again. "I'm not him anymore," he says, "I'm not that kid, I don't know how to be." Another pause, another breath. "There was so much I never let you see," he says at last. "So much I never wanted you to know."

"Ryan, I know that. I _know_ ," says Spencer. He sounds agonized, but there's none of it showing on his face except the tightness at the corners of his eyes, the slight downwards twist of his mouth. "You had to -" he says, and corrects himself, "we both did what we had to do. To stay alive, to..."

"Right," says Ryan. He shrugs awkwardly, trying to make the air feel less heavy and strange, though it doesn't really work. "Right. Sometimes I just want to go back," he says. "To be - again. That kid. With all those plans, who fought with his dad." He laughs a little bit. "I even want to see my _dad_. I miss him, how fucked up is that?"

"He was your dad," says Spencer.

"He was an asshole."

"He was still your dad."

Ryan shakes his head. "That's not - none of that's the point. What I'm saying is that - that if I can't, if I can't go back, I want to go _forward_. You know? I want it not to have happened, but I -" He looks right at Spencer, desperate, willing him to understand. "Jon doesn't know. You don't know."

"Ryan, I -" says Spencer, reaching out.

Ryan closes his eyes, lets the words come from somewhere else, someone else, and it still feels like it tears at his throat, presses hard on the bruises there, to say them. "He knows."

" _Ryan._ "

"It wasn't his fault," says Ryan, eyes still closed. "I bet he tried to tell you, the way he acts around me, he is so fucking _sorry_ , but he -" He laughs, even though it's not at all funny. "He was drunk. It was me, it was all me."

Spencer grabs him, a sudden tight bear hug, and Ryan opens his eyes so he can blink away - god, the fucking _tears_ , he needs to stop crying over every little thing. His hands come up, clinging automatically, and Spencer says, "No, fuck, Ryan, no, shut up -"

But Ryan has gotten this far so he can fucking well finish it, he can. It's Spencer. Spencer has the right, Spencer can hear it from him, not just from whatever Brendon said.

"It was me," he says again, muffled a little against Spencer's shoulder. "It was, there's so much you don't know, I'm, they made me, I'm a _whore_ , Spence. I'm a fucking filthy perfect little -"

Spencer grabs his shoulders and shakes him, hard.

Ryan blinks at him, dizzy and mute, and Spencer says firmly, "Shut the _fuck_ up."

"I -" says Ryan.

"No," says Spencer. "Okay? _No_. I don't care what they told you. They are so fucking wrong. I don't care what _anyone_ told you, what I care about is that you're apparently stupid enough to believe it. But you're not, okay?" His fingers come up to brush Ryan's hair away from his temple, gentle. His other hand is still on Ryan's shoulder. "Ryan. You're not. And if I have to shake you every fucking day to make you believe it then I _will_."

"Spencer -" says Ryan.

Spencer kisses him, pushing him back against the wall, and Ryan wraps his arms around Spencer's neck and holds on. He hangs on for dear life and Spencer's hand beside his head, his body warm against Ryan's all the way up from hips to shoulders, his thigh pressed between Ryan's legs - it all feels like a promise, maybe.

"Um," says someone. "Did you know your stew's burning?"

Spencer springs away, looking spooked. Ryan can't help cracking a smile as Spencer spins to face the intruders, pushing his sweat-darkened hair away from his face. It's a nervous gesture, and it's sort of endearing, more than he ever used to let show.

There are a couple of the gladiator kids in the doorway, thirteen or fourteen years old, too thin. Their clothes don't really fit: shirts with rolled-up sleeves and the hems hanging down to mid thigh, trousers barely covering their ankles. Ryan automatically makes a mental note to tell Jon and then feels oddly surprised at himself. "Frank said we had to come help," says one of them. He's got a mop of dirty blond hair that he needs to wash - _baths_ , Ryan adds to his mental list - and a tattoo of a fanged spider in a cage just above his wrist. "We can go away again if you're busy -"

"No, no, that's okay," says Spencer. "I can use some help. You're - Alex, right? Both of you?"

The blond kid folds his arms. "That's right," he says truculently. Behind him his companion - tall for his age, with long messy hair - rolls his eyes but doesn't say anything. If Ryan had any money he'd be prepared to bet the kid isn't called anything of the sort. Possibly both kids.

"You can help me rescue this stew, then," Spencer says. He's already over by the stove stirring again. There is a faint burning smell in the kitchen; Ryan wasn't paying attention before. "Or else think of another way to keep feed thirty-three people."

"Thirty-three?" says Ryan. He doesn't know if he thought it was less, or more.

"Including us," Spencer says.

The kids take a couple of steps further into the kitchen. "You're Brendon's friend," says blond-Alex to Spencer. It looks like he's appointed himself spokesman for both of them.

Spencer hesitates, glancing at Ryan, before he says, "Yeah," as noncommittally as Ryan's ever heard him. "I guess I am."

"Are you an escaped slave too?" the kid asks.

"He's a free man," Ryan says, before Spencer can answer. Spencer looks at him. Ryan hesitates for just an instant before he adds, "So am I. So are all of you."

The kid gives him a suspicious look and then ignores him. "Do you know what he stole?" he asks Spencer.

"What who stole?" Spencer asks.

The kid huffs an exasperated sigh. " _Brendon_. Do you know what he stole? From the soldiers?"

"I -" Spencer looks over at Ryan again, quickly, and Ryan doesn't know what he sees on his face, but to the kid he says simply, "Me, I guess. He stole me."

Both the kids' eyes go wide as saucers. "You were a slave?" says blond-Alex.

Spencer nods. "I was a runaway. And I got caught."

"He sneaked into a fort and _rescued_ you?" demands the other one, the quiet one.

"It was pretty dangerous," says Spencer. "He nearly got killed. I guess we both did."

"They were brave," says a hoarse voice. Ryan's startled to realize it's his. "They were really brave," he says, and the kids swing around to look at him. "We were in disguise, trying to get across the border, out of the province. Spencer got caught, and Brendon went back for him. And then when Brendon got shot, Spencer carried him over the mountains." The kids are both looking at him now, but they glance back at Spencer with sudden respect. "They were so brave," Ryan repeats. "I thought we'd lost them. I thought we'd lost them both."

That's what it comes down to, really. He doesn't hate Brendon. How the fuck could he? Brendon went back. Brendon _went back_ , and got shot, and Spencer's here and safe and alive, and there's no way Ryan could keep hating him after that. Not after that.

"You were there?" says blond-Alex.

"Yeah," says Ryan. "I was there." He laughs a little bit, because he can't do anything else. "I wasn't much use, but I was there."

"Ryan," says Spencer.

"Do you want me to stay and help cook?" Ryan asks.

"We sort of need this to be edible," Spencer says. "You should go wash up." He pauses, a small quiet instant, and adds, "Maybe look after Jon."

Ryan nods. He's so fucking - "I love you, you know," he blurts. "I really honestly..."

Spencer tilts his head. He's smiling, slow and easy and real. "Thanks," he says. "I - me too." Ryan nods again. He's smiling too, he can feel it on his face. He must look like such a fucking mess, and the kids are watching them both with interest.

"Jon," says Spencer, and Ryan says, "Right."

It's - not the hardest thing he's ever done, but pretty fucking hard - to stop in the kitchen doorway and turn around. "You should," he says, "When you're done. He -"

His voice cracks, which means Spencer must instantly know which _he_ Ryan means. He opens his mouth to say something but Ryan stops him with a hand gesture, breathes for a minute. "He," he repeats, and a memory rises up, standing with Jon halfway across the pass, looking down at Brendon's shaky handwriting on a piece of paper that was crisscrossed with fold lines. _Take care of him._

"Take care of him," Ryan says. He can say that much. He's got no right to grudge that. And someone should.

[Chapter Thirteen](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/4080.html)


	14. But Not The Song (13/17)

_  
**But Not The Song (13/17)**   
_   
[Story Index and Warnings](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/446.html)

[Chapter Twelve](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/3724.html)

  
_  
**xxviii.**   
_

_May._

The kids are fighting again.

Brendon lets go of the pump handle and looks up. He can't see them, but he can hear them scuffling around the back of the stable. They're loud enough that he recognizes their voices. It's two or three of the Alexes, shouting a string of increasingly creative insults at each other.

Then something cracks - a branch, a board, something wooden, following quickly by a squawk of protest and another angry shout. Brendon sighs, picks up the bucket he's just filled, and walks around the stable. It's hard to carry the bucket with one arm, so he uses his left arm to take some of the weight. His shoulder twinges painfully, but he doesn't stop. He'll never get full use back if he doesn't _use_ it, and he kind of doubts playing the piano is going to be enough. For a second he wishes he were back at the Beckett estate, and he could ask Travis what he should do so his arm isn't ruined forever. There's nobody here to ask, even if they did notice that he's trying to use it more.

Brendon feels a pang of guilt at that thought. It's not their fault they don't notice. They probably would if he weren’t so busy carefully avoiding them. He only talks to Mikey, usually about music. And the kids, who still regard him with suspicion but are at least willing to listen to him. It’s more than they'll to do for any of the others except Bob and Frank.

Behind the stable two of the Alexes are engaged in what appears to be a knock-down, drag-out fight, and the other three are watching with various degrees of apprehension. One of the non-fighting boys has a bloody nose, another one has a black eye, and Brendon is both very curious to know what happened, and pretty sure it won't make much difference even if they do tell him. They fight _all the time_. All of the kids do, really, over everything and nothing, for no good reason. But the five Alexes (who, Brendon suspects, are not all named Alex after all) are some of the worst.

"They were training to be _gladiators_ ," Brendon explained impatiently one day when Gerard wandered into the music room and began talking sadly about how violent and uncontrollable they are. "They had to be violent and uncontrollable, or else they wouldn't get any food, or they'd get sold away to a - " _brothel_ , but he couldn't say that out loud. He felt his entire body flinch just from thinking the word. He hadn't meant to snap, but Gerard looked appropriately upset, so Brendon decided not to tell him about the gladiator camps that sometimes made their newest slaves fight to the death, just so they would know from the start which ones were worth keeping.

He watches the fight for a few seconds. None of the boys have noticed him, so he hefts the water bucket as best he can, takes two long steps to get some momentum, and flings the cold water over the fighting pair. It hits them with a pretty spectacular splash, and they both stop instantly, spluttering and shocked, then turn as one to launch themselves at their attacker.

They stop short when they see it's Brendon, and he doesn't let himself step back nervously. They look more like drowned kittens than dangerous fighters right now, but there's one of him and five of them.

"Stop that," he says mildly, swinging the now empty bucket in his hand. His left arm hurts like hell from the effort of throwing the water, but he almost relishes the ache. When it hurts like this it feels like it's coming back alive, in a way.

"Why?" One of them steps forward defiantly. He's the blond one who usually speaks first. Brendon calls him Alex One and pretends not to notice when the boy rolls his eyes at the name. "You don't get to tell us what to do."

Brendon gestures behind him and says, "I could use some help, if you're not too busy trying to break each other's necks."

The kids exchange suspicious glances. "What are you doing?"

"Washing clothes," says Brendon. The washboard and buckets had dust on them; he gets the impression the Ways don't bother with laundry very often. But the house has been filled with nearly three dozen boys and men for almost a week now, and it's starting to remind Brendon a little too much of a slave caravan. They're in a nobleman's house; the very least they can do is stay _clean_ , or try to.

One of the boys scoffs. "That's girl work. We're not girls."

Another one snickers. "You should get Lord Way to help you."

"It's not like he knows how to do anything else," a third puts in, rolling his eyes.

Brendon swings the bucket a few more times, silently counting to ten. "Okay," he says. He's impressed that he sounds so calm. "If it's girl work, then I guess one of you can run down to the village and tell Alicia and Jamia and Lyn they should come help us because we don't have any girls around." It's almost cute, the way the kids go pale and start staring at their feet. "Make sure you say it exactly like that, too, especially the part about how you won't do girl work."

Alex One crosses his arms over his chest. "We didn't say that."

Brendon raises his eyebrows and waits. The threat of Alicia's hunting knives and Jamia's swift brisk scolding is more effective than anything he could say.

"Fine," says Alex One. He drags the word out so that it's several syllables. "But we don't know how to wash clothes. We'll probably ruin everything."

"I do," one of his friends says. When they turn to look at him, he shrugs. "What? I don't like being dirty." He has blood mixed with mud on his face and leaves in his hair, but Brendon will take what he can get.

He makes two of the boys hang lines for drying while the others start scrubbing, and after some initial grumbling and whining they settle into a routine. It takes about ten minutes before they're all covered from head to toe with water and suds, but the clothes are getting clean and the boys are laughing. Brendon stands to the side for a few minutes and wonders how long it would take them to realize if he slipped away.

"You're like magic."

Brendon jumps. "Fuck - oh. Hi."

It's Jon, and Brendon takes a step back. He doesn't mean to, not really, but he feels like somebody just dumped cold water over him. Jon is squinting in the sun and smiling slightly, and if he notices Brendon's reaction he doesn't say anything. Jon doesn't smile much anymore, at least not while Brendon's around. Brendon is surprised by how much he misses it.

"How the hell did you get them to do _chores_?" asks Jon, shaking his head in disbelief. "They won't do anything for anybody else unless Bob glares at them a lot."

Brendon shrugs uncomfortably. "It's nothing, really."

Jon's smile fades a little, and Brendon feels terrible for making that happen. "It's not nothing, Brendon. The kids really like you."

And he looks so fucking _nice_ , so earnest and kind and maybe a little impressed. It's Jon, he's always kind, but Brendon can't stand it. He doesn't deserve that look, not from Jon, and he has to look away. "Only because." He stops, swallows hard. "Only because I teach them dirty songs."

"Well, whatever you're doing, it works," says Jon. Brendon doesn't look at him. He doesn't want to know if Jon's smiling again. "It's a lot easier to keep track of the rowdier ones when they're always following you around and banging on the piano."

Brendon shrugs again and feels the pull in his shoulder. Mikey doesn't like having the kids in his music room, but when they follow Brendon in he usually just sighs and goes off somewhere else. Brendon thinks if it were anyone else, he would say something, but it's a big house and Mikey probably figures it's easier to hide himself than to keep the kids out. Brendon makes sure none of the boys touch the really nice instruments, and nothing's been broken yet. Most of them lost interest after the first couple of days anyway - Brendon didn't invite them in, they just followed him in straggly packs - but a few of them, the Alexes included, seem genuinely interested. And that's - that's nice. Teaching kids how to make music was always something he _had_ to do before, part of his duties between playing dull marching tunes when his masters commanded it and smiling sweetly when their wives cooed and called him 'pet'. But these kids, nobody's making them sit still and listen, they just do it because they want to. It's different.

"They're not bad kids," says Brendon. He feels a little defensive, then silly for it. Jon knows that. Jon probably knows that better than anyone.

But Jon only says, "They not bothering you? I know babysitting duty isn't exactly what you signed up for."

Brendon didn't sign up for any of this, but he's here now, and he's already done far too much damage. Helping with the kids is the least he can do. It doesn't - it _can't_ make up for ruining everything else, for hurting Ryan, for lying to Spencer and Jon, for letting them all think he was a friend, someone they could trust. But it's something.

"I don't mind," he says. "They're really young, and they shout a lot, but I think it's mostly because they're scared. It's better that it's me anyway."

Jon looks confused. "Better that what's you?"

"I mean, for when you guys leave," Brendon says "At least I can still - still help them, a little."

"What?" Jon says. "What are you talking about?"

"They need someone," Brendon says. "Even if it's..." _Someone like me._

Jon gives him a strange look. "They have all of us," he says.

"It's nothing," says Brendon. "They're just. You know, kids."

"Yeah," says Jon. He looks a little preoccupied now, as though his thoughts have turned elsewhere. "But you're a lot better with them than we are. I mean, look. They're doing _laundry._ That's almost a miracle." He smiles distractedly as he says it, then claps a hand on Brendon's shoulder before wandering away. Brendon feels the warm press of Jon's fingers through his shirt even after he's gone.

He tries, tries so _hard_ to keep looking ahead, not to turn and watch Jon walk away, but he can't. He just can't. He doesn't know how much longer they'll be around, Jon and Ryan and Spencer. They haven't said anything to him. Jon still talks to him, but he's busy sending messages to the Cobra and talking to the Ways, filling the house with food and making other plans. Jon doesn't know, Brendon is sure of that. He doesn't know. He doesn't know what Brendon did to Ryan, or that it was Brendon's fault the army wanted to arrest him and Tom in the first place, or _anything_ , because if he did he wouldn't even look at Brendon, much less talk to him like everything is normal.

There have been a few times, too, when Brendon thinks Spencer might say something to him, when he looks expectant and thoughtful, but Brendon always, always runs before he gets the chance. It's no good, though, even when he runs. He can't stop thinking about Spencer's hands and his strong arms and his body so warm and solid, the way his smile broke across his face when Brendon woke in the infirmary and how it made everything hurt a little less, and his voice that night, his voice low and rough and sleepy and aroused. Brendon dreams about him, and he wakes up hard and shaking and flushed with shame.

And Ryan.

Brendon avoids Ryan even more fervently than he avoids Spencer. It's easy because Ryan also wants nothing to do with him, and he's so often wrapped in Jon or Spencer, holding hands and speaking quietly and leaning together. They don't try to hide and - and that's another thing, the stab of white-hot jealousy Brendon feels, the silent cry of _it's not fair, not fair that you can have both of them,_ even though he knows he's not allowed. Maybe it is fair. Ryan never did anything wrong, and he deserves a lot to make up for all the things that were done to him.

"Hey!"

A splash of water hits Brendon, and he makes a face. "Hey what?"

"What are you doing?" one of the Alexes demands.

"Supervising," says Brendon. He forces himself to smile. It feels like his face is going to crack open.

"Will you teach us the words to that song about the milkmaid again?"

Brendon walks over to the nearest bucket and leans down, flicks some of the dirty washwater over their expectant faces. "I don't know," he says slowly. "I'm not sure you're old enough to learn that one."

"Why not?"

Alex One elbows his friend. "Because it's about fucking, dickhead, except they say 'broom' instead of 'cock' so people don't get all shocked and make women faint."

"Oh." The other Alex nods solemnly. "But there are no fainting women here."

Brendon shakes his head, but his smile feels a little more real now. "Okay," he says. "But you have to remember the words this time, or else I won't show you how to play it on the guitar later."

Mikey rolls his eyes when they all invade the music room after lunch, but he doesn't say anything except, "No fighting in the music room."

"We _know_ ," says Alex One, making a face. It's the one hard and fast rule they've given the kids so far, and it's Mikey's. Gerard is completely incapable of laying down the law, and Ray gets angry with the kids when they misbehave but switches to sympathy just as fast when he remembers the reasons they have to act out. Ray's a big sap, which is not something Brendon ever thought he'd say about a military officer. He's never known one before. None of Lady Victoria's friends were soldiers.

"Have fun," says Mikey, getting up to go.

"You could stay," says Brendon. He likes Mikey. And as well as he gets on with the kids, it's kind of lonely always being the only adult in the room. Brendon thinks he's too young to be the adult, and he definitely the wrong person to pick to be responsible for _anyone_. But Mikey looks horrified at the thought, in a quiet Mikey way, so Brendon forces a laugh and says, "Or you could leave," and lets him go.

Alex One scowls. "He doesn't like us," he says.

"He doesn't like listening to beginners," says Brendon. "He'll stay when you guys get better."

"If he doesn't like us then why does he let us stay in his _house_ ," begins Alex One, obviously working himself up to a real tantrum.

"Alex -" says Brendon, at the same time as one of the other Alexes says, "Cut it out, Cash, just shut up."

Alex One says, "I will shut _you_ up," rounding on his friend with a snarl.

Oh shit. Brendon jumps to his feet and gets in between them quickly. "You guys, if you fight in here, no music."

Alex One - Cash? Brendon doesn't think any of them noticed that slip - crosses his arms and looks mutinous, but he doesn't try to punch anyone in the face, so Brendon counts that as a win. "Okay, everyone," he says, "let's see if you actually got the words this time." He sits down on the piano stool, squeezing onto it next to the Alex that Brendon privately thinks of as Alex Three, the one who claims it every time.

The weird thing is, it's really not that difficult, teaching now. It's not even that _different_. Being a slave bought to teach an owner's child was always a careful balance of authority and subservience. The subservience is gone now, but Brendon is still aware at the back of his mind that these kids, who've endured the training, who've fought in some of the lightweight rings, could hurt him. They could, if they got angry enough, or scared enough, or both.

They won't, not on his watch. But they could.

It's a good afternoon. They make a lot of noise, not all of it good - not even most of it good - and spend a lot of time giggling uproariously over the filthy lyrics of every song Brendon can remember from Alex and Ryland's drunken late-night messing around backstairs. He falters halfway through the one about the hedgehog when a memory hits: one night Lady Victoria came down and joined them, still in her nightdress and a thin silk dressing gown, and Brendon didn't realise she was there until he was nearly at the chorus. He'd turned around and done a double-take when he saw, blushed and stumbled over the words. Alex and Ryland had howled with laughter, and then laughed harder at the look on Brendon's face when she'd smirked and taken over for him, her low sweet voice curling wickedly around the innuendoes.

He'd been only seventeen.

"Brendon?" says one of the Alexes.

Brendon shakes his head. "Sorry. Got lost for a minute there."

They end up spending the whole afternoon in there, barring twenty minutes or so when the boys absolutely have to burn some energy or they'll start fighting, and Brendon sends them out to race each other around the corridors. "Winner gets to play with the drums," he says, and grins at the way they shove each other's shoulders, playful and mock-fierce. He sort of wishes he could race too, but he doesn't think they'd think much of that. Also, he'd lose.

They're back in the music room again, and Brendon's finally got them started on something that isn't actually a drinking song, when the someone knocks on the open door. Brendon looks up and his heart jumps, seems to almost stop in his chest for a minute, because it's Spencer.

"Supper," Spencer says.

"What is it?" demands one of the Alexes - not Alex One, a different one.

"Stew," says Spencer. "It was stew yesterday and it'll be stew tomorrow." The boys all groan. Spencer cracks a smile, just a small one. Brendon turns his head away. "Sorry," Spencer adds.

"Go on, guys, or it'll be cold stew," says Brendon, trying to sound upbeat without actually looking up, except that's not going to work, so he looks at Alex-with-the-hair who is conveniently standing right across the room. Alex-with-the-hair gives him a confused look as he puts down the guitar he's playing with and heads for the door.

When they're all gone except Alex One, he makes a noise, a kind of meaningful cough. "What?" says Brendon.

"I want to talk to you," says Alex One.

"Okay," says Brendon. He'll gladly listen to anything Alex wants to say if it means he can keep avoiding Spencer's eyes. Spencer is still standing there and he doesn't know why, unless Spencer's been waiting for a chance to tell Brendon what he thinks of him, which Brendon already knows because it's exactly the same as what he thinks of himself. He doesn't think he can bear to hear it in Spencer's voice.

"No," says Alex. "I want to talk to you _alone._ " He glances at Spencer.

"All right," says Brendon, knowing he sounds relieved but he can't help it. He tries to make his voice lighter. "Give us a moment, Spence? We'll see you downstairs."

"Sure," says Spencer, and "Brendon.” He sounds serious. “I want to talk to you too.”

"Well, you'll have to wait your turn," Brendon manages, and makes himself smile at Alex. As long as he doesn't look. He's fine as long as he doesn't look.

" _Brendon_ ," Spencer says. He sounds upset. Brendon's stomach twists.

"Later," he says to the wall about one foot above and three inches to the left of Spencer's face.

" _Later_ , then," replies Spencer. "I mean it."

Brendon's pulse is speeding up and now he has to think of a way to get out of that, but he says, "Sure thing," and turns away as Spencer leaves. He listens for the sound of Spencer's footsteps retreating and maybe breathes out harder than he should when they're finally completely gone.

"Are you fighting?" says Alex.

"What? No," says Brendon. He'd forgotten Alex was there, fuck. "No, we're not fighting. Did you want to talk?"

Alex looks skeptical right up until Brendon asks the question, and then he's distracted. He shuffles his feet. "Mcash," he mumbles.

"What?" says Brendon.

Alex glares at him. "I'm _Cash_ ," he says. "That's my name."

"Oh," says Brendon, and that's not enough, he's being confided in here, so he says, "Thank you for telling me. Are none of you really Alexes, then?"

Cash shoves his hands in his pockets. It's anyone's guess where the trousers came from - it turns out the manor has gigantic sprawling attics that are just full of _stuff_ , and they've all been helping themselves to clothes from the many, many bags of old ones - but they're a little too big for him. "There's me and Ian," he says. "The other three are really Alex."

"So why didn't you say so?" says Brendon. "I mean, I bet it's confusing enough, right -" He cuts himself off because of the look on Cash's face. He's obviously said the wrong thing.

Cash ducks his head. "They - they tried to take our names away," he says. "Well, not us. Not me and Ian. But they said," he scowls blackly, "they said too many Alexes was _confusing_ , they tried to change it. They called them other stuff. But _we_ wouldn't. And then they hit us."

Brendon takes a moment to makes sure he's got the sense of that properly, and another moment to stop himself from yelling because he is _so fucking angry_ \- but not with Cash, so he shouldn't yell at him - and he says, "So you guys were testing us, right?"

"You might have been lying," says Cash.

"Yeah, okay," says Brendon. "But we weren't."

"But you _might have been._ "

"I know. But you get that we weren't?" That's important. If Brendon can't even convince one kid that he's _safe_ now -

Cash makes a face. "Of _course._ Otherwise I wouldn't be telling you stuff."

"Right," says Brendon. "Am I allowed to tell anyone else?"

"Yeah," says Cash. "It's okay now. You guys are all right." He says the last sentence with a defiant air, as if he's expecting Brendon to disagree.

"Okay, awesome," says Brendon, and - god, Cash is so _young,_ standing there. Brendon can't help it, he really can't, he grabs him and gives him a hug, a big two-armed one which strains his shoulder a little bit but it's worth it.

Cash mumbles, "Get off!" in a completely unconvincing way so Brendon hangs on a for a few seconds more before he lets him go.

"Now how about some really exciting stew?" he says.

" _Stew_ ," says Cash, making an _ugh_ face.

On the way down to the dining hall Cash says again, "So are you fighting?"

"No," Brendon repeats. It sounds even less convincing this time, even though fighting is really not the word for what they're doing. He doesn't know what is.

"Don't," says Cash. "You shouldn't fight with your friends."

That makes Brendon stop and stare at him, and Cash turns a dull red. "That's not the same," he mutters. "We hit each other. We don't _fight._ "

"Right," says Brendon.

"No, you don't get it. You shouldn't fight with your friends," Cash tells him. "You need your friends. In case shit happens. You need them, so there's someone on your side."

"Let's just go eat, Cash," Brendon says.

Cash kicks at a hole in the fraying carpet. "You need them," he repeats stubbornly. Brendon really, really wishes he would shut up. It's not like he disagrees.

He manages to avoid talking to or even looking at Spencer until well after supper is finished and a few of the kids have been dispatched to clean the dishes. Mealtimes are always a huge, chaotic mess of noise, and everybody is busy cleaning up spilled stew and breaking up fistfights among the boys. But afterward, as Brendon is heading back up to the music room, Spencer steps right in front of him before he even reaches the steps.

"I want to talk to you."

Brendon stares at Spencer for a second - he's frowning, his expression so serious, his eyes so _blue_ \- then blinks rapidly and ducks his head. "Right now? Because I was going to - "

"You've been avoiding me all week."

Brendon feels his face grow hot. There's no sense trying to deny it. "I'm sorry," he says softly.

Spencer sighs. "I know you are. That's why I want to talk to you."

Brendon looks up then. He can't _not_ , not with Spencer's voice so quiet and gentle, the only thing Brendon can hear even though the hall is filled with the racket of boys' voices and footsteps. Spencer is watching him thoughtfully, like Brendon is a puzzle he's trying to figure out, and it's - it's almost too much, almost enough to make Brendon turn and flee.

"Please," says Spencer.

Brendon nods. He can't make his voice work.

Spencer reaches out like he's going to touch Brendon's arm, but when Brendon twitches away he stops. "Let's go outside?" Spencer glances around. "It's kind of noisy in here."

There are quiet places in the house, rooms they can go to for privacy, but Brendon nods again and follows Spencer. He glances back just before he steps outside. Ryan is standing on the steps, about halfway up the flight, looking directly at Brendon. Brendon's breath catches. Ryan doesn't look angry or upset or _anything_ ; he’s completely expressionless, one hand resting on the banister, one foot higher than the other on the steps. Brendon stares, he can't look away, but Ryan blinks first and walks up the steps without looking back.

There is no moon. The night is dark and cool, the forest around the house filled with familiar evening sounds. Spencer takes the front steps in single jump, then turns around and walks backward for a few paces. "Come on," he says. "I want to show you something."

It doesn't sound like a command. Spencer sounds almost - Brendon thinks he must be imagining it, hearing things he only wants to hear - but Spencer sounds almost _playful_ , like he's daring Brendon to follow.

Brendon can't pretend he's not curious. "What is it?"

"Come _on_." Spencer is at the edge of the forest, waiting. "You have to see it."

There's not much of a trail through the trees, at least not one that Brendon can see, but Spencer seems to know where he's going. The pale fabric of his shirt seems to glow in the shadows, and even though he's walking quickly Brendon has no trouble keeping up. He doesn't ask again where they're going, and Spencer doesn't say anything.

They've been walking for several minutes when Spencer stops abruptly. "Here it is."

Brendon stops just short of walking into his back. "Here what is - oh." They've reached the wall that surrounds the manor. It's overgrown with moss and vines, more forest than stone in some places, and the stone feels slick and damp to the touch. "Is this what you wanted to show me?"

"No," says Spencer, somewhat distractedly. He's not looking at Brendon or the wall; he's crouching down and feeling in the dirt. "Not exactly. What I wanted to show you is... Here. This." He tugs on something and pulls open a hidden trapdoor; dirt rains down into the dark hole with a soft patter. "It's the tunnel Tom found," he says. He rests his arms on his knees. "He said it was all filled in when he first got here, and he and Lord - Gerard were clearing it out."

Brendon kneels beside the entrance to the tunnel. In the shadow of the wall, it's impossibly dark on the inside. The air above the entrance is cool, as though the earth is exhaling. "Do you think it'll be useful?" he asks, because this, at least, is easy, talking about something that isn't _everything_.

Spencer shrugs. "Tom thought it would be. He told me - that first day." His voice trails off and he looks up, toward the top of the wall. "It seems like a long time ago, doesn't it? A week."

Brendon tugs at a root jutting from the ground and says nothing.

"You want to see where it goes?"

Brendon looks at Spencer. "It's really dark."

"Yeah."

"Do you?" Dark, and cold, and damp, and filthy, but if Spencer wants to see where the tunnel goes, Brendon will go with him.

Spencer starts to nod, then shakes his head, then nods again, this time more firmly. "Yes. I do." But he doesn't make a move.

"You sure?"

To Brendon's surprise, Spencer smiles ruefully, brushes his hair back from has face with one hand. "I'm, um. I don't like the dark."

"I'll go first," says Brendon. He doesn't know if he's ever heard Spencer admit to being afraid of something before. He swings his legs over the edge of the opening and leans forward. "Maybe we should've brought a candle."

"It's clear all the way through," says Spencer. "I saw it last week. There's nothing... just, you know, use the walls to..."

Brendon nods. "Right." He takes a deep breath and drops feet-first into the tunnel.

The ground is a lot closer than he expects, and it jolts him when he lands. He can't see anything in front of him at all. The tunnel is completely dark. "Okay," he says. He reaches out to brush his fingers against the crumbling, muddy walls. "Maybe you should..."

Spencer drops into the tunnel right behind him, and he grasps awkwardly for a second before he finds Brendon's hand and grabs it tight. "Okay," he says hoarsely. "Just... go straight. There's no, um. Turns or anything."

Brendon nods again, then realizes that Spencer can't see it. "Okay. Forward."

They walk forward awkwardly. Brendon keeps one hand on the wall of the tunnel as they walk. He feels roots and stones and some things that are probably worms, and in places something - roots, he hopes - snags his hair. Spencer is breathing rapidly, not saying anything, and he's holding Brendon's hand so tightly it hurts, but Brendon doesn't complain. After a few steps he closes his eyes. He can't see anyway, and it's a bit easier if he doesn't try.

It feels like they're walking forever, even though he knows it's only a few minutes. They don't speak, and he can't hear anything except their footsteps and Spencer's breathing.

The tunnel ends abruptly in a wall that's made of wooden planks, not earth, and Brendon says, "Okay, this is the - I need my other hand to climb out."

"Oh. Oh, right." Spencer lets go, but he steps closer as he does so, warm and solid against Brendon's back. He sounds like he's trying to hide how nervous he is. "I think there's a door, maybe, like on the other side?"

"There's... right. Okay. Help me push it up?"

It takes some effort from both of them - mostly Spencer, he's taller and has better leverage, and Brendon can’t really use his bad arm for this - but they push the trapdoor open. Spencer gives Brendon a leg up. Brendon scrambles out, and Spencer follows, spluttering and spitting a little. "You kicked dirt right in my face."

"Sorry," says Brendon. He sits down and looks around. There doesn't seem to be anything special about this patch of forest, but it's too dark too see much. "Where are we?"

Spencer sits beside Brendon. "On the other side of the wall."

There's something about the way he says it that makes Brendon shiver. "You know it's not - the Ways' estate, we're not locked in. We could, you know." He laughs a little bit, even though there's nothing funny about it. "We could go out the front gate."

"I know," says Spencer. He doesn't sound annoyed that Brendon's reminded him, even though maybe he should. "I know. I just - like to see it. Sometimes. Out here, we're not... It's stupid, isn't it? We're in the middle of the forest. But."

"Yeah." Brendon rolls his head back and looks up at the sky. There are wispy clouds covering some of the stars, moving quickly in a high wind.

"When they raided Ryan's dad's farm," begins Spencer suddenly.

Brendon closes his eyes. His throat is tight, so painful it's hard to swallow.

"They killed all the adults," Spencer goes on. His voice is calm, strangely flat, and Brendon turns to look at him, to see what he can't hear. But it's too dark to read his expression. "His dad. My... my parents. All the other slaves. We were - we were the oldest. Ryan, really. He's a year older than me, I think. I don't know when my birthday is."

Spencer is silent for a moment, but Brendon doesn't say anything. He doesn't even move.

"He didn't know." Spencer clears his throat, and his throat his rough when he goes on. "Everyone else they took in the raid, we were all slaves, you know? But Ryan... He was fifteen and he didn't know. How to act. How to... how to _behave_ so they wouldn't, so they... I tried to tell him. I tried to - but he didn't listen, and he kept - they noticed. They _always_ notice."

Brendon begins, "Spencer. Spencer, you don't - "

"I know," Spencer snaps. "I know I don't have to tell you, okay? That's not why I'm... That's not why."

"Okay," Brendon says quietly. "Okay. I'm - I'm sorry."

It's a while before Spencer speaks again. "I tried to tell him, but I didn't - sometimes I think, if I had, had, I don't know, done something, gotten their attention instead, maybe they would have... me, instead. If I had tried. I didn't really try - I was too scared. But if."

He sounds so small, shaky and lost, Brendon moves without thinking, slides a few inches across the ground so he can reach out, but he doesn't touch Spencer, not yet. He doesn't have that right anymore, but it's all he can do to draw his hand back. "It's not your fault," he says. "You couldn't have - Spencer. That's not, that's not how they work. You know that. It's not your fault."

"Yeah," Spencer says. He laughs suddenly, and it's shaky but real. "That makes two of us."

Brendon drops his hand to the ground. "What?" He really wishes he could see Spencer's face, his eyes, the way he's holding his shoulders. His voice, here in the dark forest, it's not enough.

"You and me both," says Spencer. He takes a slow breath. "Neither of us is to blame for how incredibly fucked up Ryan is."

Brendon lets a startled noise escape, not quite a word. He draws his legs up to his chest and hugs his knees. He doesn't know what Spencer is trying to say. It doesn't make _sense_ because it sounds like, it sounds like he's not angry, he's not disgusted, he's not anything that Brendon can recognize. "But I - "

"Yeah," says Spencer. "You did. I miss you."

" _What_?" Brendon looks up quickly.

"I've been trying to talk to you," says Spencer.

Brendon doesn't want to say, _I don't understand why you want to_ , so he only says again, "I'm sorry."

They're quiet again, surrounded by crickets singing. There was a time, Brendon thinks, when he would have been scared of the forest. Most of his earliest owners lived in town, where there was always light and there were always people awake. But there's nothing scary about it now, especially not with Spencer sitting beside him, breathing quietly and looking at the sky.

Spencer's hands and knees crackle through the leaves on the forest floor, and suddenly he's sitting a lot closer, close enough that Brendon can feel his warmth and hear how he holds his breath, only for a moment.

"Do you wish you hadn't?" Spencer asks. Then he corrects himself quickly, apologetically. "I mean, not - not before, not the other thing, with - I mean. With me."

Brendon thinks about it for a long while before answering. "I don't know." He doesn't know if he could have gone on pretending, watching Ryan pretend, knowing what they were both hiding.

"Okay," says Spencer quietly. He starts to move away a little, rustling through the leaves on the ground again.

"No, wait." Brendon reaches out to put a hand on top of Spencer's hand and twists to face him. He searches Spencer's face carefully, straining his eyes in the dark, looking for - for something, _anything_ , to give him a hint. Spencer doesn't lean away or pull back; he doesn't flinch or look past Brendon. He looks like he's - like he's waiting for something. "Do you?"

"I don't know," says Spencer. "I don't know. Maybe I should."

And quickly, before Brendon can react, Spencer leans forward and kisses him.

Brendon gasps in surprise. _Please_ , he thinks, and _you can't_ , and _you don't deserve_ \- but he doesn't move. He _can't_ , not with Spencer's lips so soft and undemanding against his.

"You came back for me," Spencer says, and now he's moving away, enough that he can look at Brendon but so close Brendon can still feel his breath on his face. "You could have - you would have been safe. With Ryan and Jon. Why did you come back for me?" He sounds disbelieving and confused, and he's watching Brendon with an expression so intense and searching Brendon has to look away, to look past him for a moment. But that's too much, that's not fair, not with Spencer waiting.

Brendon says, "They would have. Ryan wanted to. And Jon, he was trying to keep us safe, it was just - they didn't think there was any way. They would have."

Spencer is completely still for a moment. Then he leans back on his hands and rolls his head back, looking up at the sky through the treetops. "But they didn't," he says. Brendon can't figure out what's in his voice, if it's anger or sadness or understanding. "You did. You found a way."

"I had to," Brendon says desperately. "Spencer. I _had_ to. I should have - I said I could do it. I said I could trick them, make them believe our story, but I couldn't even do that, not even with Ryan - not even. I should have been better. We shouldn't have made you pretend, that wasn't - "

"Don't," Spencer says. He grabs Brendon's arm. It's his injured arm and it _hurts_. Brendon makes a tiny noise of pain and Spencer yanks his hand away so quickly it's like he's been burned. "Oh, god, I'm sorry. I - I forgot, your arm. I'm sorry."

Brendon rubs his upper arm a little bit. "It's fine. It's getting a lot better."

"It wasn't your fault." Spencer reaches for him again, but this time his touch is hesitant. "Brendon. It was a shitty plan all around. I don't know why I thought I could pretend to be a fucking _soldier_ , that was the stupidest fucking idea _ever_ , like I know the first goddamned thing about marching and - and whatever the fuck they do in the army."

Spencer's shaking his head as he talks, and Brendon can't help it. He starts laughing. It's not _funny_ , not at all, but maybe it is a little, because they're both here and they're both alive. Spencer stares at him, and Brendon only laughs harder. "I'm sorry," he gasps, struggling to breathe normally. "I don't mean - I'm sorry. It's just."

"Yeah," Spencer says. He shakes his head again, but he's smiling this time. "It is, isn't it?"

"I didn't think it would work," Brendon admits, suddenly sober. "It almost didn't." He crosses his legs and leans forward a little bit, and he's never been good at earnest but he wants - he _needs_ Spencer to hear this part, to look at him and listen and _understand._ "I had to," he says, holding Spencer's gaze. "It wasn't - I promised you I would. When they took you away."

"Why?" Spencer asks quietly.

"Why did you carry me when you could have left me behind?"

Spencer's lips curve into a smile. "I had to."

He moves forward again and Brendon has a moment, _he's going to kiss me again_ and _please_ , but he twists his head and leans away. It comes back at all once, the crushing, sick guilt he forgot - he _let_ himself forget, because he wanted to think, to believe that it would be - but it isn't okay. Nothing has changed. Just because Spencer's feeling grateful - _forgiving_ \- nothing has changed.

"No," Brendon says. He stared fixedly at the matted leaves on the ground. "It's okay. You don't have to. I - you saved my life, you don't - "

"Oh, for fuck's _sake_." Spencer grabs a handful of dirt and throws it right at Brendon, showering him with leaves and twigs. "I don't want to kiss you to _thank you_ , you dumbass."

"But - why?" Brendon feels like an idiot the moment he asks it, and he feels hot all over. "I mean. You - you _know_ , I'm not, I'm not - " He looks away miserably and twists his hands in his lap. "You should hate me," he says in a rush, before his tongue gets tangled and the words are lost. "He's your - he's everything, and I - you _know_ what I did, and he's - you should hate me. You _have_ to."

Spencer doesn't say anything for a long time, and Brendon doesn't look up. He's waiting for Spencer to get to his feet and walk away. That would be best, he thinks. That would be easiest. Then Spencer does move, and Brendon's heart beats so fast he's amazed Spencer can't hear it, and he says, "No, wait - "

"I'm not going anywhere," Spencer says. But he is moving, sliding closer to Brendon, then he's wrapping his arms around Brendon in a tight hug. "I thought," he begins.

Brendon holds himself tense. There's nothing he wants more than to relax into Spencer's embrace, closes his eyes and lean against him and hold him back, but he can't.

"I thought part of the deal of this whole freedom thing," Spencer goes on, "is that I get to start ignoring people when they tell me what I have to do."

"But Ryan." Brendon stops. He tries to move away a little, but Spencer doesn't let go.

"He's not here right now."

 _Yes, he is,_ Brendon thinks, _and that's my fault too_. "But - "

"I want to kiss you," Spencer says. He sounds angry and defiant and belligerent, like he's moments away from storming off even though he hasn't moved.

Brendon hesitates, then carefully takes Spencer's arm and moves it so he can lean back. He looks at Spencer carefully, he keeps his stupid mouth shut for once in his life and _looks_ , and he can barely make out the expression on Spencer’s face in the faint, faint gleam of starlight through the branches overhead, but it’s enough, and he thinks, _Oh_. For the first time it occurs to him that Spencer is just as scared and uncertain as he is, just as aware of all the shadows hanging around them and problems left unsolved.

"You want - "

"Yes."

They're on the other side of the wall, no one stopped them from leaving and there's no one else here right now.

"Oh," says Brendon. _We're allowed,_ he thinks. In his mind it sounds like a question.

He doesn't wait for Spencer to move first. He reaches up and wraps both hands around the back of Spencer's neck. It's not familiar, but he knows now, he remembers Spencer's lips and tongue and stubble, the way his nose bumps Brendon's when he turns his head, the way he nips teasing at Brendon's lip with his teeth. It’s like before, but it's nothing like before. There's no urgency, no rush. Spencer's hands are warm through the fabric of Brendon's shirt, curling around the back of Brendon's neck, and Brendon only wants to crawl closer, to press himself into Spencer and never move away.

They part, breathlessly, and Brendon leans his head on Spencer's shoulder. "What are we - " _Doing. Going to do. What about. Things are still wrong. And Ryan._ But his voice fails and he's pressing kisses to the line of Spencer's jaw instead, the soft spot behind his ear and down the side of his neck.

"I don't know," Spencer says. "Tomorrow, we'll - tomorrow."

His voice goes breathy on the last syllable. Brendon's kissing just under his collarbone, holding his shirt out the way with three fingers of one hand. He didn't exactly plan to be doing that, it just. Happened. He stops. "I -" he says, looking up into Spencer's eyes. He can just make out, in the starlight, how they're focused on him, how dark they've gone.

"Will you come back?" Spencer says, softly.

"Where?"

"To bed. To - with me. You left. You've been gone."

Brendon puts his hand on the side of Spencer's face and thinks about kissing him again, helplessly, can't _not_ think it. It's been like this all week, this _thinking_ , this _remembering_ , the taste of Spencer's mouth and the warmth of his hands, and all he wants to do is reach up and claim another kiss and just _stay there_ , maybe forever, arms around each other and mouths joined, hot and close, breathing each other's air. He's been sleeping in a different room every night, telling himself he's testing them, finding the habitable ones, and never able to face them again after morning comes and he wakes up to flat, uncaring emptiness. It's _stupid_ , it's only since he got hurt that he's fallen asleep every night listening to Spencer's breathing, and yet.

And he thought -

"Aren't you," he says, "I mean - Jon." He can't bring himself to say Ryan's name again, even though that's what he actually means. Jon and Ryan share a room. He thought Spencer was with them, with _Ryan_ , the way he was always supposed to be.

Spencer shakes his head. "I've been on my own."

He says it simply, straightforward, but Brendon feels how tight and tense his body's gone, how his hands are light where they're touching Brendon's back. He thinks of Spencer lying alone in the dark, on the bed that's too big for one person. In the infirmary sometimes he'd woken up in the night and peered over the edge of his bed to check that Spencer was still there, curled up on the pallet, pillow-creases pressed into his cheek. He knows that Spencer sleeps small and still when he's alone, folded in on himself like he doesn't dare take up an inch more than he has to; that he has dreams which make him frown and sometimes whimper in his sleep, but don't wake him.

But when he fell asleep next to Spencer, when he woke up warm beside him with the sunlight streaming in, for the brief perfect seconds before Spencer moved and Ryan was there and Brendon saw the look in Ryan's eyes - Spencer had slept sprawled on his back that night, taking up most of the bed, and both times Brendon woke in the night he was still, his breathing deep and even, his body warm next to Brendon and under him.

"Come back," Spencer says. He brushes his fingers through Brendon's hair and then his hand is resting on the side of Brendon's neck. Brendon puts his own hand up to cover it, warm skin against skin, and doesn't even try to look away from Spencer's eyes.

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, okay."

Back at the house, they fall asleep in the same bed but not touching. Brendon doesn't try to kiss Spencer again. There's a moment when he thinks Spencer might kiss him, the two of them staring at each other across the pillows. He hears a soft rustle of movement, sees in the faint light the way Spencer licks his lips. But he doesn't come closer. Brendon closes his eyes and tries to make his breathing even out, but it's not easy.

After a while Spencer does reach out, though, just a little, just enough that his hand brushes Brendon's arm. Brendon shivers and doesn't open his eyes. "Sleep?" Spencer says.

"Maybe I am asleep," says Brendon. His voice comes out kind of hoarse.

"You're not," says Spencer. "You kick more."

Brendon can hear the smile. "Sorry," he whispers.

Spencer touches his arm again, just quickly. "It's good to know you're still there," he says.

The air feels cool against Brendon's skin once he takes his fingertips away.

_

 **  
_xxix._   
**

It's early evening when Alicia comes to the house, and Jon is in the stable with some of the younger boys, taking care of the horses. She appears in the doorway, a slight silhouette against the twilight, and says, "Walker. We have to talk."

Jon turns. Her expression is oddly serious. "What is it?"

" _Now_ ," she says. She pivots on her heel and starts to walk away. "Don't waste time. Get the others."

Jon tells the kids to finish with the horses and follows her, jogging quickly to catch up as she strides toward the house. "What is it?" he asks again. "Did something happen?"

Alicia says, "I hope you have a good place to hide."

Jon nearly trips over his own feet. "Hide? Why?"

"You and all the kids," she says. She bounds up the front steps and pulls open the door. "The house won't be good enough, not if he decides to search. Gerard's a nobleman but he's not exactly intimidating, I have no idea how he'll handle this, so it's better if you just - "

"Whoa, whoa, wait." Jon walks right into Alicia, who's stopped in the middle of the entry hall. "What the hell is going on? Who's coming?"

Alicia turns around and looks at him. "The sheriff. He doesn't normally bother with this village, but somebody noticed our work the other night. Jamia stalled him as long as she could in the village, but he's on the road now and he'll be here soon. Where the hell is everybody?"

Jon stares at her for a second. "I - sheriff?" Alicia rolls her eyes, and he shakes himself. "Right. Right. We have to get everybody together. Can you...?" He points vaguely upstairs, and Alicia nods and runs up the stairs, hollering at the top of her lungs. Jon sticks his head into the dining room. There are already a bunch of boys there waiting for dinner. He tells them to stay put and hurries down the hallway to the kitchen.

Spencer and Brendon are making supper with the assistance of the boys who, it turns out, are not all named Alex. It seems their desire to follow Brendon around even extends to helping with chores, and Brendon is cleverly taking advantage of their willingness to help.

Jon has no idea what he looks like, but as soon as he steps into the kitchen Spencer asks, "What's wrong?"

"Come on," says Jon. "No, leave the food. We have to go."

Brendon's eyes go wide. "Go? Where?"

Not the house. Alicia said the sheriff might look through the house. Not the woods, it's too easy for one of the kids to get lost and be spotted. They can't trust most of the people in the village or get there fast enough.

"Jon?" says Spencer tentatively. "What's going on?"

Jon takes a deep breath. "The sheriff is coming. Alicia came to warn us, and we have to go hide. We have to go..." Shit, shit, he can't _think_ , where the fuck do you hide twenty-five boys? He should have fucking thought of this, this is supposed to be part of the fucking plan, but –

"The tunnel," says Brendon suddenly. "We can hide in the tunnel. It's - it'll be tight, but we can fit."

Jon stares at him, and then nods. The tunnel. Tom - Tom’s plan to clear it out. Of course. "Get some candles, get everyone together. You - Cash, Alex, all of you, you know where the other boys might be. Go find them and get them down here. _Run._ "

The boys glance at Brendon, and when he nods slightly they race out of the kitchen. Jon hears their feet pounding up the stairs.

"Where's Ryan?" asks Jon. "Come _on_ , we have to go."

Brendon and Spencer are right behind him when he goes back to the entry hall. There are a lot of kids milling around, but Ryan is nowhere to be seen. Jon climbs up a few steps and tries to get the kids' attention. The boys are excited, talking too loudly, and most of them ignore him until Brendon jumps up a few steps higher, waves his arms comically, and shouts, "Hey, everybody, _shut the hell up!_ And listen to Jon," he adds, more calmly. "Please. This is important."

Jon gives him a small smile. "Right. Listen, we have to leave the house for a little while. Not long, just a few hours, but we have to go _now._ "

"Why?" one boy shouts.

"The sheriff is coming here," says Jon. He's not going to lie to them. "People saw what happened at the camp, and he's asking questions. But we can hide - I promise you, we have a safe place to hide, where he'll never find us. Just follow - " Jon glances across the room at Spencer, and Spencer nods. "Everybody follow Spencer, he'll show you where to go." Jon turns around and says to Brendon, "We need to do a headcount, make sure nobody's missing."

"Got it," says Brendon. He jumps down the steps and heads over to the front door, counting the kids as they head out.

"We'll stay behind."

Jon turns again. Bryar and Iero are on the steps behind him, the Ways just beyond. Still no sign of Ryan. Jon hasn't seen him in hours, maybe half the day. He's been doing that a lot, vanishing for hours at a time, and Jon can't pretend not to notice that it happens most when Spencer is spending time with Brendon.

"Wait, what?" Jon says, Iero's words suddenly sinking it. "Staying?"

Iero says, "If the sheriff knows Gerard bought slaves, he'll expect to see slaves."

"Freed slaves," says Gerard, glaring at the back of his head. "I'm going to tell him that I freed you. You're gladiators. He'll believe it."

Jon nods slowly. They're right. It'll probably provide a believable story, if Gerard can lie well enough to pull it off.

"Not to mention it's illegal to have slaves in this province," Iero adds, unconcerned. "Where's your boy, Walker?"

"He's not my boy," Jon snaps. "And I don't know where - "

Gerard's face lights up. "I do. I'll get him. You go out with the others."

Jon follows the last of the kids out of the house and runs with them across the garden and into the woods.

Spencer already has the trapdoor to the tunnel open and the boys climbing in when Jon catches up. Brendon is a few steps behind him, and Jon shoves a handful of candles at him and waves him in after the kids.

"Go on," says Jon, nodding to Spencer.

"Where's Ryan?"

"He'll catch up," Jon says. "Go on in, we'll follow."

Spencer looks at him for a second, then backs away from the trapdoor and runs back into the woods. Jon calls after him, "Spence, wait - " But he breaks off and sighs.

He sits on the edge of the door and leans down, peering into the darkness. There are a couple of candles lit, and Jon can see the length of the tunnel. It's only about thirty feet long, and there's barely enough room for all the boys, crowded together in a jumble of legs and arms. They're talking and squirming, eyes big and scared in the candlelight, and Brendon is walking awkwardly down the tunnel, tripping over legs with nearly every step, trying to calm them down.

"All the kids are here," says Brendon, craning his head up to look at Jon. He doesn't ask where Ryan and Spencer are, but Jon can tell he wants to from the way he looks past Jon.

"They'll be here," Jon says. "Try to get the kids to quiet down a little, will you? If the sheriff - "

"I'll try," says Brendon. He bites his lower lip worriedly. "Do you think they'll search the grounds?"

"I don't know," Jon admits. He hopes not. It would be too easy to follow their tracks through the woods, too easy to spot the signs of digging and clearing around the entrance to the tunnel. Jon hasn't been out here since after Tom - since the first day they arrived at the manor, and nobody else has done any work to hide what's supposed to be their hiding place. "We should be as quiet as possible," he says. He tries to keep the worry from his voice, but judging from Brendon's expression, he's not very successful.

A branch snaps in the woods, and Jon whips his head around. It's getting dark now, and it takes a second for him to see Spencer and Ryan in the gloomy twilight. They're holding hands and running through the forest, and when they stop at the wall they're both panting.

"In," Spencer gasps. "Get _in_ , there are men, they're looking around - "

Jon jumps to his feet. "Go. I'll cover our tracks." When they hesitate, he shoves Ryan gently. " _Go_. Leave room for me."

Jon does the best he can to hide the recent stampede of people through the underbrush, sweeping away footprints with a branch and blanketing the area around the tunnel entrance with leaves. He knows it won't hold up under close scrutiny, but hopefully the sheriff's men won't have any reason to scrutinize. When he's done he returns to the entrance and jumps down, closing the trapdoor after him. The tunnel is nearly pitch dark, lit only by a few candles wavering uncertainly in the gloom.

"Okay," says Jon. The kids are, for once, strangely quiet. "We'll wait here until Gerard or the others come to tell us it's safe."

"How do you know they won't find us?" one boy asks. Jon can't see his face in the shadows, but he recognizes the voice as one of the Alexes who is actually named Alex.

"I don't know," he admits. "I don't know if they'll search the woods, or if they'll believe what Gerard tells them."

"Why can't we leave?" another kid asks. "We can run. Through the woods, they won't find us."

A few others murmur in agreement. "You should let us run."

Jon rubs his hand over his face. "We're safer here than we are at the house, or trying to go somewhere else. There's nothing we can do but wait."

"Why?"

"We can make it."

"I don't want to stay here."

"Why do we have to always do what you say?"

"You said you wouldn't lock us up anymore," a boy says quietly.

And the worst part of it is, Jon thinks, he doesn't even sound angry. He sounds resigned and unsurprised. "We're not," he begins.

"We're just trying to keep you safe," Brendon jumps in. He's sitting against the muddy wall directly across from Ryan and Spencer. His knees are drawn up to his chest, and the kids turn to look at him when he speaks. He sounds calm and soothing, but Jon can see how tightly his hands are clenched around the fabric of his trousers. "You could run, sure, but where will you go? If we stay here, at least we know who we're hiding from, and we'll be safe until they leave. Nobody in the village knows about this tunnel. It was all filled in until a couple weeks ago."

The kid still mutter unhappily a little after that, but at least nobody tries to leave. Jon gives Brendon a thankful look, then he sits down awkwardly at the end of the tunnel, right underneath the door. There's almost no room, and he ends up hooking his legs over Ryan's. Ryan glances at him quickly and nods. His face is all sharp angles and dark shadows in the flickering candlelight, smudged with dirt and tense with worry. Jon stares for a few moments, not caring if Ryan or anybody else notices.

A chunk of dirt falls down from the tunnel ceiling, and Spencer makes a tiny noise, his head snapping up. He's holding Ryan's hand again, squeezing it so tightly it must hurt, and even in the scant light he looks pale.

"You okay, Spence?" Brendon asks quietly.

Spencer nods shortly. His lips are pressed together in a thin line.

Ryan studies Spencer's profile for a second, then leans over to whisper something in his ear. Spencer shakes his head, and Ryan pries his hand free and turns so he can wrap both arms around Spencer. He pulls him close and whispers again.

Spencer lets out a sudden, shaky laugh. "That's not funny."

Ryan rests his head on Spencer's shoulder. "It's a little bit funny."

"It is not. You're not as witty as you think you are."

"I'll have to try harder," Ryan says solemnly.

Spencer smiles slightly, wobbly but real. "I guess you do all right."

Brendon is watching them, but he looks away quickly when he sees that Jon has noticed. He starts talking to the boy sitting beside him. "Hey, Ian, did I tell you about the time I fell into a pit trap?"

Ian tries and fails not to look curious. "No."

"It was awesome," Brendon says. "I was stuck in there all night until I figured out a way to climb out, and the whole time I kept thinking that a wolf was going to wander along and fall in with me."

Down the tunnel a few boys snort with laughter. "That's not how traps are s'posed to work," one of them says.

Brendon grins. "I know. I didn't fall in on _purpose_ , you know. Alex - I told you about my friend Alex, the hunter - was trying to trap a wolf that was killing sheep around the village, and he sent me to check the traps."

"Was he a slave too?" asks Ian.

"He was - no. No, he wasn't. He was Lady Vic - Lady Asher's groundskeeper, a free man." Brendon pauses, then adds, "She was my owner." There's something in his voice that Jon can't recognize. It sounds almost like wistfulness. Jon wishes he could see Brendon's face more clearly in the gloom.

"How could he be your friend, then?" one of the Alexes demands. "Free men don't make friends with slaves."

Brendon makes a sudden movement with one hand, like he's going to gesture and decides against it. He stops and instead pulls his legs closer to his chest. The tunnel is narrow, but he is carefully, so very carefully, not touching Ryan and Spencer's legs across from him. Ryan tightens his grip on Spencer and presses his face into Spencer's neck, and Spencer leans into him.

"Sometimes they do," Jon says quietly, when nobody else speaks.

Brendon looks at him, flicks a glance at Ryan and Spencer, then says, "Yeah. Sometimes they do."

"Your owner let you go out in the woods by yourself?" another kid asks. "You weren't chained up?"

The expression that crosses Brendon's face is so openly, painfully bleak, Jon finds it hard to breathe for a moment. Then the look is gone, replaced by a familiar expression of forced cheerfulness, one that Brendon wears far too often. "No," he says. "It wasn't like that. Not - not with her. I was, well." Brendon clears his throat, then starts speaking very quickly, "I wasn't allowed to go a lot of places, but in the woods - I wasn't very good at hunting and stuff, but Alex taught me how to check the traps when he wasn't - that's what I was talking about, right? That time I fell in the pit, it had been raining for _weeks_ , seriously, all the time, and the ground was all soft, so the pit was collapsing around the edge and I slipped. I twisted my wrist when I landed, and it wasn't very deep, but it was deep enough that I couldn't climb out. Not at first, anyway." Brendon laughs a little. "It started raining again."

Down the tunnel, a boy asks, "How did you get out?"

Brendon shrugs. Jon sees him wince a little at the stiff motion. "I climbed out. Not until the next morning, though. I mean, I kept trying all night, but the rain made it hard. I kept thinking, you know, this is a trap for wolves, what if the wolves fall in while I'm in here? But I climbed out in the morning."

"Was your owner really angry?" one boy asks. "That you didn't come back?"

Another adds, "Did you get whipped?"

Brendon closes his eyes briefly, and Jon can see the weariness when he opens then again. "No. No, she never whipped anybody. I couldn't - my wrist was hurt pretty bad, and I got sick from being out in the rain. I couldn't play for a while, and I thought - I mean, that's what I was for, playing music. That's why she bought me, but then I couldn't..."

"Did she sell you?" asks Ian.

"No," Brendon says quietly. "She just, well, I was pretty sick for a while, she just put me in her bed and made me drink a lot of tea and - "

Ryan's head snaps up, and he stares straight at Brendon.

"In _her_ bed?" Cash interrupts loudly.

Jon opens his mouth to tell him to keep it down, but he stops when he sees the look on Brendon's face.

Brendon stutters, "No, no, I meant, in _a_ bed. In her house. Not, not a bed in the... the usual slave quarters. Not - just a bed." He looks down at his knees. "Only until I got better."

"Brendon," Spencer begins, disbelief plain in his gentle tone.

Brendon looks at him quickly and shakes his head. "No. You don't - it wasn't like that." His voice is so small Jon knows only those nearest him can hear. "It wasn't like that."

"Brendon," Spencer tries again. "You didn't - "

Brendon's whispering now. "No, it wasn't, it wasn't the same, not like - "

"She had no right," Ryan says. Brendon starts visibly at the sound of his voice.

"It wasn't like that," Brendon whispers again, desperately.

Ryan is whispering too, his voice low and hoarse. "She had no right."

Brendon shrugs and he doesn't look up.

Spencer moves away from Ryan a little bit, and Ryan lets him go. He reaches across to put a hand on Brendon's arm, tentative at first, then closing around his wrist and tugging slightly. "Brendon, it's okay. It's - c'mon, look at me?"

One of the kids gasps, and it takes a second for Jon to register why. Then he hears it. There are voices overhead, outside the tunnel.

[Chapter Fourteen](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/4270.html)


	15. But Not The Song (14/17)

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**But Not The Song (14/17)**   
_   
[Story Index and Warnings](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/446.html)

[Chapter Thirteen](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/4080.html)

  
**  
_xxx._   
**

Ryan's legs go tense where he's got his calves tucked under Jon's. Spencer and Brendon haven't moved, but Jon's distracted from whatever it is that's happening in front of him. There's soft frightened murmuring going on now, and that's got to stop. If the kids make noise it's all over. He glances down the tunnel, trying to do a headcount by the flickering light of the candles, but it's impossible, and he knows they're all in here anyway, he's just - reassuring himself. He doesn't know how to tell them to be quiet.

He ends up meeting Cash's eyes by accident. Cash is the loudest and most riotous of Brendon's gaggle of noisy followers, and Jon doesn't know how to handle him at all. He's stubborn and troublesome, rebelling at every opportunity, testing his newfound freedom to the limits, and he only really seems to trust Brendon and his own friends. But Cash stares at him for a moment then gets to his feet. Jon wants to tell him to shut up, sit down, don't _move_ , but it turns out not to be necessary. The kid moves near-silently as he walks between the huddled groups, stepping from one circle of candlelight to the next, occasionally tapping at someone's head with his hand or nudging one of the younger kids with his foot. Jon watches his skinny silhouette move through the shadows and thinks he should have done that instead - or who is he kidding, they won't trust him, he should have sent Brendon.

But the kids know Cash is one of their own, and they trust him too. They fall silent and still, and thank god, no one looks like they're going to start panicking. The rest of Cash's little posse are huddled safely and quietly together while they wait for him to come back; a couple of the Alexes are holding hands.

Jon breathes out in relief and concentrates on listening. The voices outside aren't getting quieter and they aren't moving away. Whoever's up there is just standing still and _talking_ , fuck, which means they probably don't know what's right under their feet but the chances of them noticing go up with every minute they're still there.

Cash picks his way back to them a few minutes later, and there's no sound in the tunnel now but breathing and the faint rustle as he slowly eases himself to the ground between Ian and one of the Alexes, who shuffle closer to him. He glances back at the four of them near the entrance - no, not at them, not at Jon. He looks at Brendon, and that makes Jon look at Brendon too. His face is pinched with unhappiness and fear, but he straightens up, leaning away from Spencer even though Spencer's still holding onto his wrist, and meets Cash's eyes, mouthing _good job_. Cash looks proud of himself.

Jon wonders again how it is that Brendon understands them all so well, when no matter what else happened to him he was definitely never a gladiator.

While he watches Brendon jerks his arm a little bit, trying to shake Spencer off without actually looking at him. Spencer won't let go. Up above there are tramping noises, footsteps, people looking around. Jon turns his head up to stare at the trapdoor right above him and prays they don't walk over it. If they do they'll hear the echo, the hollowness underneath.

Ryan makes a small, small noise. Jon glances at him and blinks, blindsided by the tableau in front of him. He doesn't know what he expected to see, but... not this. Spencer's still refusing to let go of Brendon. He's leaning across the width of the tunnel so precariously it looks like he'll fall, his fingers closed so tight on Brendon's wrists there are marks - but he's not looking at Brendon, he's twisted around to look back at Ryan, lips pressed together, expression pleading. Brendon's back is plastered against the wall, his torso tilted so he's blocking Spencer's access to him, trying to get away. And he's watching Ryan too, staring, his eyes wide and scared in the candlelight. Ryan looks back at him, biting down hard on his lip, his eyes dark and unreadable - even now, when Jon's beginning to get the hang of reading Ryan.

Jon thinks he should maybe crawl across to him, hold on, complete the circle.

This is the maddest thing he's ever been part of, and he doesn't even know what it is.

There's a loud hollow thud above: someone just stepped onto the trapdoor. Someone is standing on it. Someone is above them.

Jon closes his eyes and prays it's Gerard or Ray or someone else who's on their side. The silence stretches, taut with fear, nearly thirty people holding their breath. Ryan and Spencer and Brendon, all the kids, everyone's gone still, looking up at the dark ceiling of the tunnel like it'll warn them. Jon's doing the same thing.

Another thud, louder. It might be someone trying to open the door, or it might be someone stamping his foot. A clod of earth breaks away from the ceiling and falls, knocking over the nearest candle, and the tunnel gets gloomier. Jon can only just make out what's going on now, but it's enough to see the way Spencer's face goes frozen.

Brendon reacts first, twisting around and suddenly not leaning away any more. He opens his arms to pull Spencer towards him and Spencer goes, almost toppling forward out of his precarious lean. He ends up slumped against Brendon's side with his legs sprawled across the tunnel, one of Brendon's hands tucked around his waist, the other resting in his hair. His face is hidden against Brendon's shoulder. Brendon looks down at him and closes his eyes for a moment and then opens them again, looking straight across at Ryan, not letting go.

They stare at each other in the gloom for a long moment. Jon can't look away.

Eventually, Ryan nods, the tiniest movement. Brendon looks down.

Up ahead, there's another thud as whoever it is steps off the trapdoor again, and the sound of voices fades.

Jon breathes out, long and slow. They're okay. It's passed. They're safe.

He reaches for the candle to re-light it, digs a little pocket in the earth floor for it so he can have his hands free, and then fumbles in his pocket for matches. He feels happier when there's a little more light again, even though it doesn't make much difference. All they have to do now is wait for someone to come and tell them it's safe.

He looks up and Ryan's watching Spencer and Brendon where they're curled together against the opposite wall, his face set in an expression that's somewhere between miserable and self-mocking. Jon shuffles a little closer to him, because he can, and nudges at his thigh with his foot. Ryan looks around and smiles at him, but it's not his real smile, just a tense imitation.

Jon makes a sad questioning face back, a silly one. Ryan blinks, and then he does smile, properly, and Jon feels a little better.

Spencer says very quietly, mostly to Brendon's neck, "I'm sorry, you guys. I get - sometimes, I -"

"There is no way you were more scared than I was," says Jon.

"It doesn't matter," Brendon whispers, restlessly stroking his fingers through Spencer's hair. "All right? Because if - if -" He trails off, then finishes all in a soft fierce rush, "No matter what happens, I'll come back for you again. And again and again. I promise."

"No," says Ryan softly. Brendon's hand in Spencer's hair goes still, and Spencer jerks his head up to stare. Ryan doesn't look away. "No - I'll - _we_ ," he says. "I mean, Spence, I mean - _we'll_ come back for you. Next time, if there ever is one. We will. All of us. I - for _any_ of us." He glances over at Jon, then, including him in that _any_ , that _us._

Jon already knows. Ryan and Spencer went back into a slavers' camp for him. It makes something in him unknot a little bit anyway.

Ryan's not finished. He takes a deep breath and glares at them all and says, "I'm never giving up again."

Brendon's eyes go wide. Ryan ducks his head, apparently fresh out of courage, and puts his hand on Spencer's leg, holding on for a moment. He nods to himself and repeats, "Never again."

Spencer answers quietly, "Okay, Ry."

Ryan pulls his hand back and looks up, glances at Brendon and Spencer one last time, before he shuffles over to Jon. Jon shifts and makes room for him, careful not to dislodge the candle. Ryan puts his arms around Jon's neck and leans his head on his shoulder, closing his eyes, and Jon holds onto him and stares at the other two. They stare back. No one says anything.

From further down the tunnel one of the Alexes whispers, "Brendon? Jon? What's happening? What's going on?" He sounds afraid.

"It's okay," says Jon at once. "We're going to be okay, we just have to wait and keep quiet."

"It'll all be okay," Brendon agrees. "They missed us. Just stay quiet. Pass that on, okay? We're fine, just stay quiet. Pass it on."

It's Frank who knocks on the trapdoor of the tunnel some time later and says through the wood, "They're gone now."

Jon untangles himself from Ryan and stands up. He has to stand on his toes to reach the door, but Frank pulls it open from the top. Cool night air flows into the stuffy tunnel, and Jon hears relieved sighing and murmuring spread down the line of boys behind him.

Frank grins down through the entrance. "Ready to get out of there?"

"Hell yes," says Jon. "Give us a hand up?"

Frank reaches down and grasps Jon's hand, helps him scramble out of the tunnel. Together they help all the others out. The boys stand in tight little clusters, whispering and looking around the dark woods nervously. When they're all out, Jon shuts the door and carefully hides it again beneath dirt and branches.

On the way back to the house, he asks, "What happened?"

Frank snorts. "The sheriff's a fucking idiot. He believed the bullshit Gerard fed him, but said he wanted to check out the grounds in case any of the other escaped slaves were hiding in the woods. Said he wanted to return them to their proper place, but I'd bet my fucking right arm he was trying to think of a way to make a profit if he finds any of them." Frank spits on the ground. "Fucking asshole."

Jon nods, unsurprised. In his experience about half the black market slave trading operations out there are run by law enforcement officials. They'll have to keep on eye on this man in the future.

They walk a few steps in silence. "He signed the papers," says Frank suddenly.

Jon looks at him. "The sheriff? What papers?"

"No. Gerard. His lordship." Frank's mouth twists into a crooked smile. "The papers setting me and Bob free. He gave them to us after he showed them to the sheriff. For when we want to leave, he said."

"Good," says Jon. "Those papers - they won't stop somebody who's really determined to make trouble, but they'll help a lot, for finding work and traveling and everything. That's good."

"Yeah, I figured that out on my own, Walker," says Frank, but he's smiling when he says it. It occurs to Jon that he doesn't know anything about Frank's past - or Bob's, for that matter. He doesn't know how long they've been gladiators, whether they were trained as kids or as adults, whether they've always been slaves or if they remember being free. He should have asked. He will ask, he decides, even if they don't want to tell him. He'll at least ask.

The kids hang back a little as they near the house, until Brendon detaches from Spencer - they've been holding hands, walking along - turns around, walks backward a few steps and shouts to the group, "Nobody's eating until you all wash the mud off your hands." There are groans and mumbles, normal boy complaints, and Brendon smiles. "Around to the pump, all of you. The faster you wash, the faster you get to eat." As the boys race away around the house, he adds, "If dinner isn't burnt to a crisp, that is."

"Mikey was looking after it," Frank offers.

Spencer rolls his eyes. "Oh, great." He jogs up the steps to the front door.

Brendon calls after him, "You have to wash your hands too, Spence!"

Spencer makes a rude gesture over his shoulder and disappears into the house. After a second, Ryan looks at Jon and says awkwardly, "I'll go... I should help," and follows him.

"You too, Jon Walker," says Brendon. There's mud on his face and leaves in his hair, and he's bouncing on his feet a little nervously. "No dinner unless you clean up." He goes on quickly, before Jon can answer. "That was - it's a good thing we have that tunnel, but I didn't think - maybe we should have, I don't know, a better plan. For if this happens again. With this many kids, keeping track of everybody..." He trails off and shuffles his feet, his shoulders hunched. "Never mind, I don't know -"

"We should," Jon says, before Brendon can shrink in on himself and turn away. "We definitely should have better plans, in case something like this happens again. You're exactly right."

Brendon looks up, surprise and maybe a little bit of guilt on his face. "I don't really know. This is your thing. I'm not trying to tell you how, I'm just. I'm trying to help."

"Brendon," says Jon. He doesn't know whether to feel sad or exasperated or a little bit of both. He steps closer and reaches out with one hand, grasps Brendon's good shoulder gently. "You are helping. You're an _amazing_ help. I have no idea what I would do with all these kids if they didn't like you and trust you so much."

Brendon looks skeptical, but also so achingly hopeful. Jon stamps down the sudden urge to go back and hunt down every single owner who taught Brendon to distrust praise so much, every single person in his entire life who made him think he didn't deserve it.

Jon says, "Come here." He pulls Brendon closer and wraps him up in a tight hug. "You're good, Bren," he says softly. "This would be a lot harder without you."

Brendon goes very still at first, for only a second, then he lets out a surprised noise and clings back, tucking his face against Jon's neck and squeezing tight enough that it hurts a little. Jon doesn't complain, and he waits for Brendon to move away slightly before loosening his embrace.

"I should -" Brendon turns away quickly, and Jon pretends not to see him wipe his eyes. "The kids, I should..."

Jon keeps his arm hooked around Brendon's shoulder and steers him around the side of the house. "We have to go wash our hands before supper. I hear that's the rule in this house."

Brendon laughs shakily. "Number one rule, Jon. Cleanliness is very important."

Dinner is a noisy, disorganized, rambunctious affair. The boys have moved past their fear and are now talking excitedly, loud in their relief. Several of them are demanding that Gerard tell them again and again exactly what the sheriff said and how he got the man to go away. Gerard looks a little bit overwhelmed by their attention at first. Most of the kids, so far, have wavered between ignoring him completely and regarding him with a kind of disdainful distrust. But he warms up to the requests and is soon relating the entire tale with rather more flourishing and wild gesturing than necessary.

"It's good that he's so... like he is." Ryan is beside Jon, but these are the first words he's said since they sat down to eat. He's looking down the table to where Gerard is talking.

Jon looks at him in question. "What do you mean?"

Ryan hesitates a moment before answering. "It's easy," he says thoughtfully, "easy to learn to be scared. Of other people. Noblemen. People with money. People who can - who _could_ buy them and -" He looks at Jon quickly, and Jon nods. "But learning not to be scared, that's a lot harder," Ryan says. He straightens his shoulders and looks down the table again, but this time his glance falls on where Brendon and Spencer are sitting, just a few chairs away, engaged in a conversation with Mikey. "It's good that they can - here, I mean, with the Ways, they can learn that."

 _You can too_ , Jon wants to say. _You_ are _too. You're so fucking brave, more and more every day_.

But he only reaches over to squeeze Ryan's hand gently, enjoying the way Ryan looks surprised, then pleased by the gesture. "Yeah," says Jon. "It's kind of hard to be scared of Gerard, isn't it? All the gargoyles and creepy statues are totally misleading."

Ryan ducks his head like he's trying to hide his smile, and Jon can't help himself. He reaches out to touch Ryan's jaw, brush his fingers gently along his face, tilt his chin up a little so he can see. Ryan lets him do it, and the look in his eyes is so uncharacteristically warm, so _trusting_ , it's all Jon can do to remember that they're sitting at the dinner table surrounded by the others, that it's probably not a good time to twist his hand into Ryan's hair and tug him close and kiss him breathless.

He waits too long to say something, do something, and Ryan's gaze flickers. Jon can see the shutters come over his eyes, the mask sliding carefully into place. He drops his hand casually when Ryan leans away.

"I'm sorry," Ryan says, so quietly Jon has to strain to hear.

"No," says Jon. "Don't be. You have nothing to apologize for."

Ryan looks at him sharply but looks away before Jon can read what's in that glance. He lets it go.

After dinner there's the usual trouble getting all the boys to calm down and go up to bed. Jon knows they'll be up for hours anyway, talking amongst themselves and sneaking from room to room, but he figures they deserve it, at least for tonight.

Jon heads back downstairs to make sure there are no stragglers, and he finds Spencer and Brendon sitting at the bottom of the stairs, leaning together and talking quietly. The hall is dark, lit only by the sconces leading up the sweeping staircase, and they're little more than shadows hunched together in the echoing room. Jon stops halfway down the steps. He isn't being quiet on purpose, but his feet are bare and they haven't heard him yet. Spencer is saying something, his voice low and urgent, and Brendon is shaking his head, a constant _no, no, no._

"Brendon," Spencer says, and that one word isn't loud, but it's clear and strong and questioning, enough to make Brendon stop shaking his head and look at Spencer, actually _look_ at him. It's as though the moment is frozen, the two of them facing each other, their mouths slightly open but quiet, wordless, and Jon watching. He knows he should turn around, make some noise to let him know he's there. This isn't for him to see. But he doesn't move.

Brendon starts to say something, the barest beginning of a word, but Spencer breathes, " _Brendon,_ " and cuts him off with a kiss. It's soft and gentle and quick, but neither of them pulls apart. They trade kisses for a while, making soft, wet noises and starting to move with more confidence and surety. Brendon brings his hands up carefully to grasp at Spencer's shoulders, and Spencer makes a sound low in his throat. It's a _happy_ noise, and he's smiling when he leans back a little, and it's not like Jon hasn't known about this. It's not like he hasn't guessed, the way they are together. But they're so careful - _careful around Ryan_ , Jon thinks, because there are questions and answers in their interactions, silent conversations he doesn't fully understand even though he can see them happening.

But like this - they're not careful now, not when they think nobody's watching. Brendon is calm for once, not quite still but not ready to flee either, and Spencer is smiling almost shyly as he touches their foreheads together. It changes his entire face, the fear and worry and careful blankness he usually carries melted away. Jon thinks: this is the Spencer that Ryan fell in love with so long ago, maybe before they even knew what it meant. This is who he's been holding onto for so many years.

Jon ignores the sudden, painful twist in his stomach and takes a step down, landing heavily enough to make a noise. Spencer and Brendon spring apart, startled, and he feels a pang of guilt for interrupting.

"Everybody up in bed?" he asks. His voice cracks a little on the last word, but he clears his throat and pretends not to notice.

"Everybody's upstairs," Spencer says after a moment. "Who knows if they're actually asleep."

Brendon looks at Jon for the briefest moment, then he looks away. He starts to pull his legs up to his chest, but he changes his mind and stands up instead. "Maybe they aren't," he says, "but I'm going to be. Good night, guys." He hurries past Jon without touching him.

Spencer watches him go, and he stands up when Brendon turns the corner at the top of the stairs. He crosses his arms awkwardly and takes one step up, but he seems to be waiting for something. Maybe waiting for Jon to say something, but he looks annoyed and challenging and scared all at once, and Jon doesn't know what that means.

"You going to bed too?" he asks.

"Yes." But Spencer doesn't move.

Jon takes a few steps down so he's not towering over Spencer. "Spence? Something wrong?"

"No," Spencer says, too quickly. "Yes. I don't know." He bites his lip, and for a second he looks so _young_ that Jon's heart aches. "It's not because - it's not just because you're, and I can't. That's not what it is."

Jon takes a moment to make sure he's followed that. "I know that," he says. "Spencer, I didn't think - _nobody_ thinks you would do that. We know." He doesn't know if he's being fair, implicitly including Ryan in that statement.

"He's not bad," Spencer says defensively. "He's not."

"I know, I don't -" Jon stops. He thinks of a million tiny looks and touches he's seen, the way Brendon looks away as though he's not allowed, the way Ryan nodded as though he was giving permission. So many things, but none of them add up to anything he can understand. "You mean Brendon? Why would you - what's going on?"

Spencer looks past Jon. The candlelight from the sconces make golden specks reflect in his eyes. "It's not like that," he says. "What you think. It's not."

"I don't know what you think I think," says Jon. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Ryan," Spencer says, as though that's an answer. He's still not looking at Jon. "He. He lets you take care of him and that's, that's good."

"Spence..."

Spencer shakes his head slightly. "You make him smile."

"So do you," Jon says urgently, a tight panic rising in his chest. "Spencer. So do you. He loves you. He _loves_ you, okay? Anybody can see that, it's so fucking obvious, he _does_ -"

Spencer smiles crookedly, but there's nothing happy about it. "It's not like it was before."

Jon doesn't know what that means. Before they were captured, before they were rescued, when they had only each other to hold onto and nobody else. There are so many _befores_ and so much history stretched over it. "It is," he says. "That's - Spencer, it is."

"He lets you," Spencer says. "He lets you, because you never saw - you never saw him before."

There's no question which _before_ that is. "I know," Jon says. He does. He maybe always has. He's never asked Ryan to talk about being a slave, tries so hard to do nothing to remind him. "I know. It doesn't matter to me - I swear, it doesn't, but I know it does to him."

"He was always meant to be free," says Spencer. He starts climbing the stairs, brushing by Jon with the briefest accidental touch. "It's good that you let him remember that."

"Spencer, wait. That's not - so are you, Spencer, so -"

But Spencer doesn't even look back. He keeps climbing and Jon hears him turn into the hallway on the third floor, his footsteps fading as he walks away.

Jon starts up the steps too, then he goes back down and snuffs out the candles on the wall one by one, letting darkness fill up the hall behind him.

Ryan is waiting for him in their room. _Their room_ , that's how Jon thinks of it. _Their bed_ , even though he's still so careful not to cling, not to make Ryan feel like he can't get away. Ryan is sitting cross-legged on the bed. Behind him the window is open, the curtains stirring in the cool nighttime breeze. Jon shuts the door behind him, and he's still trying to decide what to say when Ryan speaks up first.

"Do you know her?"

Jon blinks. "Who?"

"Lady Asher," Ryan says, frowning around the name. "The woman who owned Brendon."

"No, not really." Jon sits beside Ryan on the bed. "I met her for the first time when you did, at William's place. She's one of Saporta's friends. She's been a member of the Cobra for a long time. Years."

"She _owned_ Brendon." There's so much in the way Ryan emphasizes the word, bitterness and confusion and anger. "She didn't - she owned him. She didn't set him free."

"No," Jon agrees. He thinks for a moment about how she looked when Brendon was injured; she'd come and gone while Jon was standing in the corridor outside the infirmary keeping people away, until it seemed like every other time he looked up she was there hovering further down the hallway. She'd tried to stare past him, sometimes resting a hand against the wall like she needed something to hold her up. At last he'd let her through, just because the expression in her eyes when she asked was too much.

He thinks, too, about how she's been masquerading as a slave under a costume and paint, about Saporta's reputation and secrets buried underneath lies, and all the things about the Cobra he doesn't know.

Ryan twists his hands together. "I don't - how can she be, how can she say she's trying to _help_ when she - when she..."

"Ryan." Jon inches a little closer, until their knees bump together. "Has Brendon told you something?"

"No." Ryan laughs brokenly, more like a dry sob than anything else. "No. He didn't - he didn't say anything. If he had."

Jon waits, but Ryan doesn't go on. "If he had?"

Ryan looks away. "He talks about her like - like she was kind to him. Like it was good, living there."

Jon has heard Brendon's stories as much as Ryan has. "It was different for him," he says unnecessarily. "But I don't think he thinks it was good." At least not when he's being honest with himself. Jon doesn't know Brendon well enough to know how well he manages that. And he doesn't know Lady Victoria at all; he can't even begin to guess her reasons.

"Not so different," Ryan says. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows and clears his throat. "I didn't know."

"How could you?" Jon asks. But Ryan only shrugs, so he tries, "Why should you have? Ryan?"

"He should have _told me,_ " Ryan says. "I would have known, if he'd told me."

There's something Jon's missing. He guessed it before and he _knows_ it now. Ryan's not making sense and he's staring at his own hands, the lines of his arms stiff and tense.

"Ryan, can I -" he begins, and then stops himself, and rests one of his hands on Ryan's back between his sharp shoulder blades, and says, "What's going on? Ryan?"

Ryan shakes his head and doesn't look up. "I should have known," he says quietly. "I missed it. He's a good actor."

"Ryan, please," says Jon, but he can't - he's never going to make Ryan talk about anything he doesn't want to talk about, but he feels like he's back in the tunnel right now, stuck in the dark with only a few pinpricks of candlelight to show him what's happening. "I don't have the first fucking clue what's going on," he says. "I know there's something. I know there's got to be - will you tell me? Will you please just fucking explain something to me?"

Ryan breathes, in, out, doesn't look at him.

Jon stumbles to a stop and says, " _Fuck,_ " because he doesn't mean - "You don't have to say anything that - I just, if you don't want me to know, I won't know. But Brendon can barely look at you and I just had a really fucking weird conversation with Spencer and I'm - I'm confused, okay?" He sounds defensive now, but he doesn't mean to do. He's careful with his tone around Ryan normally. It's not like he thinks Ryan's made of glass, but... maybe he's a little bit made of glass.

Ryan says, flatly, "You'll hate me." But he doesn't move away from Jon's hand on his back.

"I couldn't."

Ryan looks up at that and his eyebrows are raised, his mouth quirked, and his expression is so controlled and self-mocking and _doubting_ that Jon wants to shake him. "Really?" he says, and his voice doesn't shake even a little bit, which is how Jon knows he's afraid, because Ryan doesn't hide from him anymore - mostly.

Jon does him the courtesy of thinking about it, even though he doesn't have to. He rubs slow, warm circles on Ryan's back and says, "No," when he's flicked through dozens of scenarios in his head, from the plausible to the near-impossible, none of them bad enough. "No, I really don't think I could."

Ryan's watching him. _God_ , his eyes.

"I really couldn't," Jon says, helplessly, and kisses him.

Ryan turns into it, and it's just a warm close-mouthed press of lips but it's something. Jon doesn't know what it is but it's something, and Ryan's put his arms around Jon's neck. Jon whispers, "Ryan," against his mouth.

Ryan breaks the kiss, rests his forehead against Jon's, and shuts his eyes. "I was never like that," he says, quick and hard, the words falling out one after another. "I was never her. I didn't do that. I - I know that - Spencer was - but I didn't do that."

"I know, Ryan," says Jon. "I know you wouldn't do that."

Ryan laughs, short and choked, a puff of warm air against Jon's face. "But I didn't know. He didn't tell me. I didn't know."

"What?" says Jon, and then, "Brendon?" and then, "What?"

Ryan's arms tighten around him, squeezing, and then he lets go, sitting back on his haunches. "Yes. Brendon," he says, and then he swallows, and he laughs again, not a happy sound at all, and he swipes his hand across his eyes, and says, "Brendon," again, voice falling on the end of the word like he's gotten lost.

This is - Jon's suddenly, absolutely sure that whatever this is, this is part of Ryan's Before, the things he's kept hidden, and he says, "You don't have to."

"You've got the right. You deserve to know," Ryan says, and then he gulps and says, "I'm not going to look at you, okay?"

"What?" says Jon again.

Ryan jumps to his feet and faces away, faces the open window. The draft pushes his hair back from his face a little. Jon watches his profile, watches his jaw work, lifts a hand and says his name. Without looking at him, Ryan says, "Please don't say anything."

"Ryan," says Jon again.

Ryan shakes his head. "Okay," he says. "Okay. So." He knots his hand behind his back, straightens his shoulders, swallows, staring fixedly at a point somewhere beyond the window, somewhere in the distance. "So I'm not her. I was never her. So I wouldn't do that, and I wouldn't have - not even before, I wouldn't have -" he stops. "No, maybe I would. Yes, I would have. It was Spencer. But I didn't _know_." Another pause, and he repeats, softer, "I didn't know."

Jon wants to touch him. He doesn't move. He thinks Ryan's courage will crack if he does.

"At - at - I, at." Pause. "At the Valdez house," Ryan manages. "We. No, I." And then he stops again. "It was so much easier if I could just blame him," he says at last. "So that's what I did. Even though he didn't, even if. I was out of my mind, I was so scared." He closes his eyes. "And he didn't know how to tell me no. Why didn't I see it? He didn't know. He couldn't know."

" _Ry_ ," Jon says, pieces of the puzzle suddenly falling into place. At the Valdez house, paint still on Ryan's face, and he'd been stuck in the stables all night while _something_ happened and he hadn't known. Ryan and Brendon -

"I didn't mean to," Ryan says in a small voice. "I didn't know. I only just - I only just put it all together. I knew it was me but I didn't know it was - I wouldn't do that. Whatever that, that _fucking bitch_ did to him, I _wouldn't do that_." He turns back to Jon, finally, meets his eyes, and he looks desperate. "I wouldn't, Jon, I swear."

"I - Ryan," says Jon, standing up, fuck keeping quiet, fuck staying still, he goes to Ryan and grabs him and says fervently, "I _know_." Ryan resists at first but Jon's getting good at this, at holding onto the sharp angles until he melts, and when he does Jon grips him tighter and says, "I'm pretty sure it's not that simple."

"You don't even _know,_ " Ryan says.

"You've told me enough."

Ryan sighs and shakes his head and tries to pull away. Jon doesn't let him go.

"I think you need to talk to him," he says. Ryan goes still. Jon runs his hands up and down his back, soothing, and says, "Honestly, Ryan, I do. I think - I - you - he - they - _we_ -" Oh dear god, this is ridiculous. "No, seriously, it'll be all right. It's _over_ now. We just have to fix this."

"Why?" says Ryan into his hair, like he really doesn't get it, like he really wants to know.

Jon loses his patience. This is _stupid._ "Because _all of you_ deserve to be happy," he says. "All right? I didn't rescue you from slavery and drag your asses all the way here so you could sit around being miserable."

"Oh." Ryan steps back and blinks at him. " _Oh._ "

"Yes, _oh,_ " says Jon. "So."

Ryan licks his lips. "Right now?"

The question wavers in the air. "No, it's okay," says Jon. "In the morning. Okay? He's asleep now anyway. Let's just -"

"Sleep," Ryan finishes for him.

When they're both in the bed - _their_ bed, Jon thinks again - lying a few inches apart like they do every night, Ryan's body heat warming Jon's back, there's quiet for a few minutes. Then Ryan says, "You too."

"Me too what?" says Jon, not turning over. Staring at the wall. Going to bed is all right, it's the sleeping that's the hard part. He has all these dreams.

He starts when Ryan's hand lands on his hip under the covers, warm and only a little uncertain. "You too," Ryan repeats. "You deserve to be happy too."

"Sure," says Jon. "Thanks, Ryan. Sure."

Ryan keeps his hand where it is for another few moments, then takes it away. Jon tries not to mourn the loss too much. He closes his eyes and wishes for something to do, wishes he could stay awake fixing and planning and solving problems right round the clock. Then he tugs the covers closer around his shoulders as he settles in for another night of hearing the same gunshot over and over again.

_

 **  
_xxxi._   
**

"You're not really asleep, are you?" says Spencer when he comes up, closing the door softly behind him.

Brendon's not. He tried his best to be, struggled into a nightshirt and got under the covers and squeezed his eyes shut, but he's starting to wonder if he's ever going to be able to sleep without Spencer beside him again. When he realized his heart was beating fast and he could hear every creak and whisper of air in the old house as he listened, straining, for Spencer's footsteps in the hall, he burrowed down into the covers and pulled them up over his head, lying there on his stomach with his head turned to the side. He felt a little better like that, like he wasn't so alone any more when he was surrounded on every side by softness, the air a little hot and stale under the blankets, and a mostly-imaginary trace of Spencer's smell to breathe in.

"Bren?" says Spencer, quieter.

Brendon rolls over, ignoring the twinge in his shoulder - it's getting fainter all the time now, he can handle it - and takes a double handful of the blankets, tugging them down so he can peek at Spencer over the top of them. Spencer's standing by the door, and he's carrying one of the candlesticks from the hallway. The candle in it is ancient and knobbly with old wax, burned down nearly all the way, but still shining bright enough that Brendon can see the freckles on Spencer's forearms, the hole in his shirt at the shoulder seam, a streak of dried mud from the tunnel just above his eye - and the way his smile blooms slow across his face when he meets Brendon's eyes. "Good," he says. His mouth twitches a little, right on the edge of laughter, and he adds, "Do I get to see the rest of your face tonight?"

Brendon's still got the covers pulled up over his mouth and nose, breathing lightly, and he's just peering over the edge. If it were - he thinks, suddenly, if it were Lady Victoria, she'd burst out laughing straight away, and call him cute, and demand that he stop hiding. Spencer doesn't do that. Spencer just waits, still looking at him, and Brendon watches the way the candlelight flickers and puts odd shadows on his face, the way his smile goes softer and smaller but doesn't vanish as he waits for Brendon to answer.

Brendon doesn't need to hide from him, anyway.

He pushes the covers down and sits up in bed, smiling. Spencer's smile turns broad and delighted again and he repeats, "Good. Give me a moment, okay?"

"Okay," says Brendon. Spencer puts the candlestick down on the mantelpiece and strips off his shirt in one smooth movement.

Brendon's mouth goes dry.

Spencer doesn't seem to realize he's being stared at. He's not looking at the bed as he folds the shirt neatly over his arm and drapes it over the back of the room's one rickety chair. It has to be an automatic thing, because there's no way the shirt - another thing salvaged from the Way attics - could benefit from being folded, or really from anything short of a bonfire. Brendon knows there are better things in the attics. His own clothes are better than what Spencer has picked out for himself, and Ryan wore a shirt three days last week that had a shine and a drape to it Brendon recognized as silk, though the cut was seventy years out of date. It's like Spencer doesn't trust Gerard's assertion that everything in the attics is free to whoever wants it; like he still thinks he'll be punished for forgetting his place.

His back is crosshatched with scars, some of them white and raised, others only faded red lines from years of mistreatment. Brendon wants to go and touch them, trace every last one with his mouth, even though he knows it's far too late to kiss the hurt away, knows that kissing wouldn't be enough anyway.

Spencer sits down on the chair when he's done, hooks his right ankle over his left knee and starts to work on the laces of his boots: he's double-knotted them. His hair falls forward into his face, so Brendon watches his fingers instead, and the quick careful movements of his hands, and the way the muscles shift in his arms and shoulders. There's less scarring on his front, much less. All Brendon can see is one ugly white line that curls up over his shoulder. Someone wasn't paying enough attention to where the lash landed. It makes him wince and look down, and suddenly he's remembering the first time he ever saw Spencer, how he'd stood still with the other slaves and watched silently while the whip cracked down and down and down, listening to Spencer's soft whimpers of pain.

He's amazed at himself, now. He's not sure he could do it again, if he were suddenly back there: not sure he could hold still and keep from screaming his outrage or trying to fight his way forward or both. He doesn't know how Ryan managed to stay as still and silent as he did.

He doesn't know how many times Ryan had to see it happen.

"Brendon." Spencer's voice cuts into his thoughts, full of concern. "What's wrong?"

Brendon looks up. Spencer's gotten rid of his boots finally, and he's sitting there in nothing but his trousers, leaning forward, hands resting on his thighs and wearing a worried expression. He's biting his lip. Brendon's first instinct is to scramble forward and kiss him until the troubled line between his eyebrows goes away, but then his eyes land on the scar again and he can't help the unhappy little noise that escapes from his throat. "They _hurt_ you," he says.

Spencer follows the line of Brendon's gaze, and then he says, "Oh," touching his own shoulder self-consciously. "That -" He shakes his head. "Third - no, fourth time we tried to run away. It was just bad luck that they even caught us. They wouldn't have noticed if one of the other slaves hadn't said something. They were drunk all the time."

 _Drunk all the time_ , Brendon repeats silently to himself, and wonders how Spencer can say it so easily, when Brendon knows what it must mean, how careless drunken guards are, how dangerous.

"Brendon," says Spencer again, and suddenly he's crossing the room to sit on the bed beside him, close enough that the mattress dips, dumping the two of them closer together. Brendon barely has to move and Spencer will be touching him. "Do you want -" Spencer begins, and he falters, half turns, pushes his hair out the way with his hand. Now Brendon's looking at his back again, much closer, and without even thinking about it he puts out a hand to trace the nearest scar. It's still recent and puffy, from one of the wounds he bandaged himself only a couple of months ago. Spencer shivers when he touches it.

"Spencer, you -" Brendon says.

Spencer looks back over his shoulder at him, his eyes blue-gray and scared in the candlelight. "I'll tell you," he says. "If you want -" _If you want to see, if you want to know._

Brendon nearly says _only if you want to_ , but Spencer never gives himself away like that. Spencer wouldn't have offered if he didn't want to tell.

"Tell me," he says.

Spencer turns away again, his head dropping forward, letting Brendon see. Brendon puts his hand on Spencer's shoulder again and finds the rest of the scar he was looking at earlier. "I know that one," Spencer says, "because it was in a weird place. It hurt to use that shoulder for a while." He laughs a little bit, just a quiet chuckle. "I guess we have that in common. Most of them I don't know, not exactly."

Brendon spreads his fingers over the white mark, leans forward and kisses between them. The scar tissue doesn't feel very different from the skin around it under his lips. Spencer says, "Brendon -" soft and choked.

Brendon leaves that hand where it is, lifts the other one - his stronger hand - to Spencer's other shoulder, and then strokes down across his back, keeping his touch light. "Tell me," he says again.

Spencer gulps audibly and says, "You - you saw those ones," as Brendon touches the edges of one of the fresh scars again. He leans forward and kisses that too, the lightest possible brush of lips, doesn't know if it still hurts. "That was -"

"When Ryan bit that buyer," says Brendon.

" - _worth it_ ," says Spencer. "If that asshole had bought him -"

Patrick would still have turned up the next day, with Lord and Lady Wentz in tow - Brendon still thinks of it that way, it was _Patrick_ who rescued him, even if he did it with Wentz's money - and Brendon would still have been saved, and maybe Spencer too, and maybe someone else would have ridden to warn Jon about the soldiers - and something inside Brendon is chanting a furious protest, _no no no no no_ , because without Ryan -

He kisses the scar again, open-mouthed, and Spencer gasps, " _Brendon._ "

"Tell me," Brendon whispers.

And Spencer does. The candle burns lower and lower and Spencer keeps talking, his voice low and shaking a little as Brendon's hands and mouth trace each ugly mark. "That was - a guard with a grudge, he was obsessed with Ryan, wanted - but the master wouldn't let him," Spencer murmurs for one, and for another, "I think - I don't know, I think that was early. Early. Maybe the first time. Ryan cried." Brendon's eyes feel hot too, but he squeezes them shut and presses his lips against the skin of Spencer's back again. At one point his fingers skim a questioning line over a jagged line on Spencer's ribcage and Spencer actually laughs quietly and says, "That's not - at all. I was ten, I climbed a tree to show off and fell out of it. Ryan fetched my mom." Brendon folds his fingers over the mark and kisses it anyway.

Every story Spencer tells has Ryan's name in it somewhere, even the ones where it's unspoken, even the ones where -"That was all me, there were some, some slaves who were saying things about - I hated that house, I hated it. There was a fistfight. I got beaten, I started it." Some of them make Brendon want to scream and hit things. There's one mark on Spencer's upper arm that is small and raised and perfectly circular, and Brendon doesn't actually realize what it is; his hand only brushes it by accident. He almost jumps when Spencer murmurs, "Cigarette. That was - a bad place," and doesn't say anything else. Brendon lingers there for a long time, kissing it over and over, until Spencer sighs and the tension in his spine unknots a little.

Others make him want to just wrap his arms around Spencer and hold him close forever. Spencer talks about a market up north, a hard winter, being forced to fight for food. "I," he whispers, working to keep his voice steady, "it wasn't too hard, if you kept an eye on the ones who - the small ones, the skinny ones, the ones who were getting sick. You just had to be fast and to, to know." Brendon flattens both his hands against Spencer's back and turns his head aside to let the tears come silently.

And then there are some - more than a few, maybe more than half - which make Spencer simply shake his head and say, "I don't remember. I don't remember." Brendon breathes on them, presses his mouth against them: thinks he'll remember every single one, thinks he'll never forget this. He works his way steadily down Spencer's back, hand drifting from scar to scar, following the spiderweb of overlapping lines with careful touches and whisper-kisses. He has to bend almost double when they reach the lower ones, and Spencer slumps forward, his voice growing more and more unsteady as he talks, his breath catching in odd places, following Brendon's movements and not the cadences of what Spencer's saying.

Brendon's almost hypnotized by it, and he doesn't realize how low his hands have slipped until his fingers brush the waistband of Spencer's trousers, slipping underneath a little as they follow the line of a low-placed scar. Spencer's voice cuts off mid-word as Brendon's hand flattens against his hip. Brendon looks up, startled, as Spencer breathes in sharply. He didn't mean to... "I -" he says, starting to draw his hand back.

Spencer twists around, straightening up, and stares at Brendon over his shoulder. He's wild-eyed, a little flushed, and Brendon can't get his hand away because Spencer's grabbed his wrist, holding it in place. Brendon's fingers spasm and then flatten again against Spencer's hip, the waistband of Spencer's trousers digging in just below his knuckles. His other hand has found its way back to Spencer's shoulder, to the first scar he touched, kissed. "Brendon," Spencer says, "I - oh _fuck, please_." He tugs on Brendon's wrist, pulling at him until Brendon gives in and collapses against Spencer's back and cranes forward for his mouth.

It's awkward, awkward, the kiss: Spencer has to tilt his head back and to the side as far as he can, while Brendon leans forward over his shoulder, gripping Spencer's hip much too hard because his other hand won't take his weight. He suspects he's going to leave a bruise if they keep this up, but Spencer's mouth is hot and opening for him, Spencer's tongue is licking hungrily between Brendon's lips like he doesn't care one bit, and Spencer's hand is still holding onto Brendon's wrist tightly. There's only one thin layer of fabric between them, the nightshirt that Brendon put on when he first came up here, and he can feel how hot Spencer is everywhere they're pressed together, front to back. Spencer must be able to feel that Brendon's half-hard already.

Brendon's left hand creeps from Spencer's shoulder to his exposed throat, stroking down and resting two fingers at the pulse, and he marvels at how it's hammering and scrapes his thumbnail down the side of Spencer's neck without thinking about it, just to feel. Spencer gasps into his mouth and lets his wrist go, and Brendon overbalances without the support, breaking the kiss, and almost topples forwards - but Spencer's twisting around again and catching him, and after a moment of confusion where it seems like there are limbs _everywhere_ Brendon finds himself being almost thrown down on the bed, landing flat on his back, with Spencer on his hands and knees over him and Spencer's hands wrapped around Brendon's biceps.

"Got you," Spencer whispers, and leans down to kiss him again. Brendon's heartbeat is speeding up and he strains up into the kiss, wishes Spencer would let his arms go so he could touch him properly - and then Spencer groans against his mouth and does, releasing Brendon's good arm so he can press his hand to Brendon's side, curve it around his ribcage, warm through the nightshirt. His teeth nip at Brendon's lower lip at the same time. Brendon whimpers and his hips buck. He twines his arm around Spencer's neck so he can get a handful of Spencer's hair and tug his head to a better angle.

But Spencer shakes his head, shaking Brendon's hand off, and pulls away, muttering, "What _is_ this?" tugging in an annoyed sort of way at Brendon's nightshirt. It doesn't really seem to be a question that wants an answer, and anyway Spencer doesn't wait for one. "Get it off," he says, "take it off, I want -" He pauses, and suddenly he's hesitant, watching Brendon's face. He licks his lips and murmurs, "I want to _see_." The candle is burning very low now. Brendon stares up into Spencer's eyes, turned so dark and hungry, and half a dozen things flash through his mind that begin and end with _Ryan_ , but - fuck that, anyway, Ryan isn't here, this is him and Spencer, _here, now, god_ , and Brendon just _wants_.

"Okay," he says, struggling to sit up, and then, "If you help, it'll be -"

Spencer grins wolfishly and finishes for him, " _Faster_." His fingers are already at the hem, tugging. "Arms up," he says, and Brendon grits his teeth and raises his arms so Spencer can pull the nightshirt over his head.

It hurts, it's more strain than he's put on his bad shoulder at once before, and his breath hisses out in a pained rush - but it's not _bad_ , it doesn't hurt _badly_ , it's just an ache, and it's the last thing on Brendon's mind right now anyway because he's here, now, _naked_ , with Spencer looking at him. Except Spencer's distracted suddenly, touching the bandage and murmuring, "Are you all right?" and Brendon says, "I, _yes, fine_ , just -"

Spencer looks up, meets his eyes, and something in his expression flares. It makes Brendon fall silent, suddenly very conscious of how loud he's breathing, and how fast his heart is racing, and how hot his skin feels and how cool the air in the room is against it. Spencer's gaze rakes over him slowly, and Brendon can't move, just watches while Spencer licks his lips and settles back on his haunches and breathes, "God, _look_ at you."

Brendon doesn't feel like he's anything much to look at. He knows he's small and still too thin after the caravans, and his hair must be going every which way after pulling the nightshirt off like that, and his cock is hard and jutting upright and he wants to touch himself or beg Spencer to touch him and feels kind of stupid doing either. But Spencer seems to think he's worth looking at, if the hot look in his eyes right now is anything to go by, and Brendon swallows hard as the candle gutters and says, "You too."

Spencer blinks at him for a moment and then he gets it and he's scrambling off the bed, his hands already at the fastenings of his trousers. He tugs them down and kicks them off in a matter of seconds and then he's back and he's naked too, _together_ , Brendon thinks, they're naked together, and Spencer collapses beside him and grabs at his arm and their open mouths crash together in something that's almost too hungry and too desperate to be called a kiss. Their teeth click and Spencer tries to ease back but Brendon won't let him, gets a hand in his hair again and really _pulls_ this time, and Spencer's tongue is hot and insistent in his mouth - and then Spencer puts one hand on Brendon's hip and one on his arm and rolls them over, so Brendon's on his back under him, and Brendon gasps and then gasps again as Spencer grinds down.

He's hard too, they're both hard, their cocks slide together and Brendon cries out - too loud, too loud, Ryan and Jon are only just down the hall, but _oh god oh god oh god_ and, "Spence, _Spencer_ ," he gasps against Spencer’s mouth, breathless, barely a word at all.

Spencer makes a sound, not a growl and not a word, and he's pulling away - "Wait," gasps Brendon, " _what_ ," - and his mouth is back, hot and wet on Brendon's jaw, his neck, over the curve of his shoulders and down his chest. Brendon's hand is caught in Spencer's hair and he tries again, "Wait, _wait_ , no, come back." And Spencer looks up, his lips wet and red and swollen, his hair brushing over Brendon's stomach. Brendon tugs him back up, not hard, not enough to hurt, but it's enough to make a slow, wicked smile curl Spencer's lips, and he's moving up again, his skin sliding over Brendon's, his mouth covering Brendon's again. Brendon bucks his hips, brushing their cocks together, and Spencer makes this _noise_ , Brendon feels it through his chest.

Then Spencer shifts, leans down and pulls one of his arms free, slides his hand down Brendon's side and between them, and it's rough at first, it's awkward, Spencer's trying to wrap his hand around both their cocks and the angle's wrong, there's not much rhythm, but Brendon really, really doesn't care, not when Spencer is surrounding him and pressing down on him and breathing fast and hot on his skin, making tiny, wild noises with every stroke of his hand, every jerk of his hips, and he can't figure out where to touch, where to hold, his hands skating over Spencer's skin hair arms back - and Spencer goes rigid, the arm he's leaning on trembling, he gasps out, "I - I - _Bren_ -" and Brendon bends up to kiss him, fast and messy, their teeth clashing together, and Spencer comes in a hot rush over his stomach.

He's completely still for a moment, staring down at Brendon with wide, dark eyes. "Don't _stop_ ," Brendon grits out, and he reaches down, grasps blindly for Spencer's hand without looking away from his eyes. He twines their fingers together around his cock and Spencer lets him, lets him move their hands together fast, _faster_ , until Brendon squeezes his eyes shut and comes. Then Spencer is collapsed on top of him, too hot and too heavy and it hurts, a little, the weight on his shoulder, but he isn't about to shove him away.

They lie together, quiet, breathing together, for a few minutes. Then Brendon starts, "Um," and Spencer says, "We should -" His lips move against Brendon's neck, a soft, tickling slide, but whatever they should do, it's apparently too much effort to say, and he trails off in a contented sigh.

Brendon grins at the ceiling. "There's a rag by the wash basin." He's pretty proud of himself, managing a complete sentence when he's got a limp, languid Spencer sprawled over him.

Spencer makes a noise that might be agreement, but he doesn't move.

"Move," Brendon says, poking at Spencer's side. His hand is sticky and disgusting. " _Move_."

Spencer makes a face when Brendon shoves him away and slips out of the bed, crosses the room and wets the cloth with water from the pitcher. But when he turns back to face the bed, Spencer's scowl has shifted into a smile, sated and sleepy and maybe a little bit shy. Brendon flicks the wet cloth at him, making him laugh, then cleans both of them up, enjoying the way the muscles of Spencer's stomach twitch under his touch. The he drops the cloth on the floor and collapses onto the bed, and a moment later Spencer's arm is hooked around his waist, his chin resting against Brendon's shoulder.

"You didn't try to leave," he murmurs, barely more than a whisper in Brendon's ear.

Brendon closes his eyes. He can feel Spencer's breath on his skin, his heart beating, the loose, tired drape of his limps. "No," he whispers.

Spencer squeezes him a little tighter, trying to pull Brendon closer even though they're already entwined from head to foot.

[Chapter Fifteen](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/4522.html)


	16. But Not The Song (15/17)

_  
**But Not The Song (15/17)**   
_   
[Story Index and Warnings](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/446.html)

[Chapter Fourteen](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/4270.html)

  
**  
_xxxii._   
**

When Ryan wakes up, Jon is sitting on the edge of the bed, facing the window. Weak dawn light shines through the panes, and Jon looks pale and drawn, his face unshaven and his eyes ringed with dark circles.

Ryan pushes the blanket down and Jon turns, smiling tiredly. "Morning, sunshine."

"You look tired," says Ryan. He runs one finger down Jon's arm, and Jon shivers and shifts away.

"I'm fine," Jon says. He stifles a yawn, rubs his hand over his hair, and stands up. "It's pretty early. You don't have to be up yet."

"I will," Ryan says. His voice sounds sleep-rough and his throat is dry. Jon raises his eyebrows in question. "Talk to him, I mean," Ryan explains. "I will. I said I would."

Jon comes back to the bed, leans down and brushes a kiss across Ryan's lips. He's smiling ruefully as he stands up straight again. "I know you will. But it really is pretty damn early. Go back to sleep if you want."

Jon shuts the door quietly when he leaves. Ryan rolls onto his side and hugs his arms around his middle. He watches the morning grow brighter through the window, listens to the birds and closes his eyes when the breeze whispers across his face. The sun will be up soon, golden and blinding through the trees around the manor, and the day will get warmer. Two months ago, he was waking up on the frozen ground or splintery boards of the behave-yourself wagon, shaken from sleep by Spencer's hand on his shoulder on a good day or a mercenary's boot to his side on a bad one. Now he has a soft bed and warm blankets and a pillow, nothing but songbirds and a gentle smile to wake him in the morning. And Spencer has all those things too. ( _A different bed,_ Ryan thinks before he can stop himself, _a different smile_.) Ryan doesn't remember if he ever imagined feather beds for Spencer, before. His dreams were always for himself, with Spencer beside him because that's what he wanted. He never asked what Spencer wanted.

Ryan rolls onto his back, anxious and too aware of the cold knot of dread tightening in his gut. But he's too restless, so he kicks the blankets down and stands up. He pulls on a pair of trousers and a shirt. He hesitates for a long moment after that, staring at the dressing table. There - Jon doesn't know, he doesn't think, but Ryan keeps it in the bottom drawer - there, hidden under a pile of clothes that neither of them is going to wear, is the makeup box that Brendon gave him.

He keeps thinking he ought to get rid of it. He could throw it away, now. He hasn't had to open it since they crossed the border. He's never going to need anything like that again.

But he remembers painting his face with swirls and flicks of paint, blending color into color. He was good at it, the times he did it himself. He remembers when he started to draw the birds, two or three years ago now, coded defiance on his face that only Spencer knew how to read.

He turns away, padding quietly out of the room and down the hall. There are voices in a nearby room. Ryan stops in the middle of the hallway to listen: it's a few of the boys awake early, laughing together. He can't remember the last time he woke up laughing, if he ever has.

He doesn't knock on the door to the room Spencer and Brendon have been sharing. He didn't knock before, and that was - he nearly ruined everything, he knows that. But he knows what to expect now. They're still asleep, both of them, curled so close together they're only taking up half the bed. The blankets have slipped down and Spencer is sleeping shirtless. The skin of his back is crisscrossed with dozens of scars, layered over each other in an ugly, nonsense design Ryan has seen a thousand times before but never really _looked_ at.

Spencer stirs when Ryan approaches the bed. His hair is a mess, flattened on one side, and there are pillow creases printed on his cheek. Ryan's pretty sure he's not wearing trousers, either, and - _Sex_ , he thinks, trying out the word in his mind. _They had sex._

Spencer twists around and squints up at him. "Ry? Something -" He breaks off and yawns massively, covering his mouth and squeezing his eyes shut. "Something wrong?"

Beside him, Brendon doesn't even move. He's curled up on his side, his face half-hidden by his hair.

Ryan sits on the edge of the bed and shrugs. "No," he says. "Nothing. I just..." _Missed waking up with you beside me_ , but he doesn't say it out loud.

"Is it even dawn yet?" Spencer asks, craning his head to look out the window.

Ryan whispers, "I didn't mean to wake you."

Spencer looks at him for a moment, then he reaches out and takes Ryan's hand. "C'mon. It's too early to be awake."

They used to be awake before dawn every day, roused by the shouts of the caravan guards or slave masters, shivering and hungry. Spencer was so sore he could barely move, his muscles knotting and broken blisters on his hands bleeding, and Ryan so exhausted he saw double, after only an hour or two of sleep, however long they allowed when they were done with him for the night.

"Hey." Spencer tugs his hand. "It's okay."

Ryan feels his lips quirk into a smile. "Are you reading my mind?" He draws his legs up on the bed and slips under the blanket.

"No," Spencer says, "just your face." It should feel like a threat, Ryan thinks, that there's so much written on his face, but this is Spencer. He kisses Ryan's temple softly and pulls him close, all bare warm skin, and Ryan's never been very good at hiding from him anyway.

Ryan tucks his nose under Spencer's chin and closes his eyes. Spencer's holding him tight, but it feels strong and warm and safe, not confining. He curls one hand around Spencer's waist, tucks the other uncomfortably between them. He says, "I have to talk to Brendon."

He feels Spencer's breath hitch, only for a heartbeat. "He sleeps like the dead," murmurs Spencer.

Ryan can hear Brendon breathing on the other side of Spencer, steady and slow. He doesn't say _I know_ because that isn't fair. The one night he laid beside Brendon while he slept can't count, not if Jon is right and they can - they _have_ to start fixing things.

Instead he says, "When he wakes up."

He shifts, flopping back on the pillow, and Spencer's arms around him go looser but they're still there. Ryan keeps his eyes closed and enjoys the feeling of the smile on his face, the looseness in his shoulders. This is good, this is _easy_ , and he tangles his fingers with Spencer's, turning so their joined hands are lying on the pillow between them, and opens his eyes as he kisses Spencer's wrist. "Didn't mean to wake you," he mumbles again. "G'back to sleep."

Spencer yawns but his expression is worried under the sleepiness. "Ryan, if you're -"

"S'okay," Ryan tells him. "I'm going to fix it, Spence, okay? I'm going to fix things. Trust me."

Spencer hesitates, and says, "You're sure you can?" Quiet, uncertain, maybe hopeful.

"Jon says I have to," says Ryan. He's not sure, but - but _Jon_ \- and _Spencer_ \- and even Brendon. _We all deserve to be happy._

Spencer smiles at him, a little unsure maybe, but his eyes are crinkling at the corners. "Thank god for Jon, right?"

"Thank _god_ for Jon," Ryan agrees fervently, and that makes Spencer laugh softly, so it's all good.

They fall silent after that, and Ryan closes his eyes again as the room starts to get brighter. He drifts into a doze, not quite asleep - he's still aware of Spencer warm and solid beside him, and he's listening more closely than he'd ever admit to the steady rhythm of Brendon's breaths on his other side - but not really awake either. His head is full of not-quite-dreams, sunlight and green grass and drifts upon drifts of flowers. The birdsong on the other side of the window weaves itself into his dream, a counterpoint to the sound of breathing.

Eventually he's startled out of it by a sudden, angry chattering sound. Brendon rolls over, making the sheets rustle, and yawns enormously - Ryan hears his jaw crack - before he says, "Tell me, Spence, why the fuck did we pick the room with the squirrels?"

"Mrrgh," says Spencer.

Ryan keeps his eyes closed and grins to himself. He knows that noise. That's Spencer's _I'm-not-moving-yet-and-you-can't-make-me_ noise. He hasn't heard it in so long.

"No, seriously," says Brendon, "Just because you can -" more rustling as he sits up, "- _ignore_ the little fuckers doesn't mean - oh."

Ryan opens his eyes. Brendon's staring at him wide-eyed, his mouth still a little open. His eyes dart from Ryan's face to the place where he's still holding onto Spencer's hand, and his throat works as he swallows.

"Oh," he repeats, softer, as Ryan bites his lip and starts to sit up. The mattress dips as Brendon scrabbles away from both of them. "I'm sorry," he says.

Spencer makes a grumpy noise and rolls over, his arm reaching out to circle Brendon's waist and tug him back. Brendon freezes and Spencer pulls him down onto the bed, hooking a leg over his hip to keep him in place. By the time Ryan finishes sitting up Spencer's got him firmly pinned, and Brendon's flat on his back halfway under him, his whole body tense and his eyes huge with surprise. He shifts a little, trying to get away, and Spencer makes another annoyed noise and tucks his face into Brendon's neck as he shakes his head.

Ryan can't help giggling. He pulls his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them, watching the two of them. "Well done, Spence," he says. "You definitely got him."

Spencer makes a muffled noise of satisfied agreement. On the windowsill, the squirrel begins to scold them all ferociously. Ryan starts laughing in earnest, and then he glances at Brendon's face and sees the expression there and laughs harder. Maybe it's a little bit hysterical, but it's okay. He's got it under control. It's okay.

Brendon swallows and stares up at him, and one of his hands comes up to touch Spencer's hair like he just can't help himself. He looks very, very confused. Maybe a little frightened. Ryan shakes his head, hard, trying to get the laughter under control, and says, "I'm sorry, wait -"

And he didn't know how he was going to do this at all, he had no fucking clue when he came here. He just knew that he had to do something, somehow, but suddenly he's got a map for it. He takes a deep breath, makes the laughter stop, breathes out, meets Brendon's eyes, breathes in again. He can do this.

"I'm sorry," he says again. "Brendon, I'm sorry."

Brendon goes still. Ryan hadn't realized he was fidgeting, but it's obvious when it stops.

Spencer whispers, "Okay," and pushes himself up onto his knees, letting Brendon go. Brendon switches his stare from Ryan to him, wriggling back towards the headboard a little, pulling the blanket up to keep himself covered and using his good hand to lever himself into a sitting position, and now he does look afraid, definitely. "What -" he says.

Spencer kisses him, quickly. Ryan doesn't look away even though seeing it sends a painful spark of _something_ zinging through his veins. Brendon gasps against Spencer's mouth but doesn't try to get away.

Spencer pulls away from him, twists around and kisses Ryan as well, just as quick and simple. Ryan hears Brendon make a small noise, barely a sound at all, just a sigh.

"Okay," Spencer says again when they break apart, to Ryan this time. "I'll let you." He hesitates, and then blurts, "Don't fuck it up, please."

"I won't," Ryan answers. "Trust me." He can hear both the things Spencer's asking of him, and no matter what else he ends up doing here, he's not going to spoil Spencer and Brendon. Not when it makes Spencer so _happy._

"Okay," says Spencer, and he crawls over Ryan to get out of bed. Both Ryan and Brendon watch him in silence as he dresses, tugging on his trousers and not bothering to lace up his boots. Spencer pulls his shirt over his head and rolls his eyes when he finds them both still staring when he can see again.

"Get over it," Ryan tells him.

Spencer laughs a little bit. "Right. After you."

Ryan shakes his head.

"Spencer?" Brendon says nervously.

"I'm going to go find out if the kids have left anything for breakfast," Spencer says. "I'm going to come back in half an hour. Please don't kill each other."

"No killing," Ryan promises.

"I - what - _Spencer?_ " says Brendon.

Ryan turns to look at him. He seems a lot closer without the solid weight of Spencer between them on the bed. It takes Brendon a moment to realize, and then he looks back at Ryan, and everything he's thinking is written all over his face.

He's so fucking easy to read. Ryan feels another sharp burst of fury at himself, for being a complete fucking fool.

"I promise, no killing," he says. Brendon swallows, and nods, and doesn't try to run away, so that's something.

"Half an hour," Spencer says, and then he's gone.

There's silence in the room for a long couple of moments once he's left. Ryan and Brendon stare at each other. Ryan tries to think back to that moment of clarity he had a few minutes ago, when Spencer was here and he could laugh and solving things seemed so easy - but it's gone, slipped through his fingers. Every time he tries to pull his thoughts together he gets distracted by Brendon's dark eyes or the way his fingers are twitching against the blankets or how white the bandage on his left shoulder looks against his bare skin.

Brendon gulps and breaks eye contact and says shakily, "I think I need clothes for this."

"Seems reasonable," says Ryan.

It's much easier to think when Brendon's climbed off the bed, when he's got his back to him. He's naked, just like Spencer was. Ryan looks down and doesn't think about it. When he looks up again Brendon's pulled his trousers on and he's tugging one of the faded old-fashioned shirts from the attics up over his shoulders. He stays turned away as he fumbles with the buttons, cursing under his breath and wincing when he moves his left arm too much. Eventually he gives up and goes to sit on the windowsill, long abandoned by the squirrel, holding his shirt closed with one hand.

He opens his mouth to speak just as Ryan says again, "I'm sorry."

Brendon shuts his mouth again and shakes his head and says, "No." He's staring at his feet.

Ryan feels it like it's something physical, a slap, a boot to the ribs. "What?" he says. Brendon can't - Brendon has to - he can't fix anything if Brendon won't forgive him, he can't –

"No," says Brendon again. "You can't. You can't, you, just, please - _I'm_ sorry." He looks up and his eyes are desperate. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry you don't even know, but you _can't_ , please, don't make it so -" He stops and swallows. "I know it's - it's all for him. But you don't have to - he's _yours_ , okay, I get it, I'm just. I'm just here. You don't - you don't have to be nice to me for him." He turns his head. Ryan watches the smooth lines of his neck. Brendon says softly, "I know you hate me. It's all right. It's _fair_. Or, I mean. It's not fair. But it's fair."

"Brendon, shut _up,_ " says Ryan.

Brendon falls silent.

"Okay," says Ryan. "And now look at me." He waits until Brendon looks up, and meets his eyes. It's hard, but it's - he's got to. Spencer trusts him. Jon said. He's _fixing_ things.

Brendon says, "Ryan?"

Ryan says, "I'm going to talk, and you're going to listen, okay?" He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to get things straight in his head, because he doesn't want to turn away from Brendon's gaze. "All right," he says, when he's feeling surer, and opens them again, and Brendon's still right there, still looking at him. "Okay. Firstly, you are wrong in so so many ways that I can't even begin to list them, so I'm just going to - okay, I love Spencer, I love the fuck out of him, but _he's_ the one who does stupid self-sacrificing bullshit, not me. All right? I don't." He hesitates. Brendon's watching him uncomprehendingly. "I wouldn't be nice just for him," Ryan says. "I mean, I might try, but I'd end up forgetting, or -" He shakes his head. "I'm just too selfish, Brendon, okay? I'm really fucking selfish."

"You're not," says Brendon in a small voice. "You're not, you -"

Ryan shakes his head. "I am." Something bites at his memory, and he laughs bitterly. "You don't, I, I really am. I spent - Brendon, I spent five years letting him take my beatings because I was too proud to just - to just keep my teeth to myself."

Brendon's breath catches but he doesn't say anything.

"The second thing is," Ryan says, and his voice isn't as steady now but he's doing this, he's fixing things, "the second thing is that you can't be sorry. You can't be sorry, because _I'm_ sorry. I meant it."

"You haven't got anything to be sorry for," Brendon says.

"I - I really think I do." Ryan swallows. "I know I do. I didn't really understand. It was, the - that fucking _stupid_ plan. And we all barely knew each other. And I was -"

"I'm sorry," says Brendon again.

"You were okay, is the thing," Ryan says. "You're a really good actor. You had them all fooled." He licks his lips. "You had me fooled. _Sir Brendon_. I forgot. I forgot how much you're like me. Or I guess I didn't even know. You - I spend a lot of time thinking about myself."

Brendon shakes his head. Ryan doesn't know whether it's denial or disagreement or something else, but he presses on.

"What happened -" he says.

Brendon says, agonized, "I _hurt_ you." His fingers clench in the fabric of his shirt.

Ryan shakes his head. "No you didn't. It was - for fuck's sake, Brendon, it was just a blowjob. I've -" He laughs, but it sounds harsh and raw so he cuts it off. "I've dealt with so much worse, seriously, you were even pretty nice about it. And I -"

Brendon's face is twisted up, and he looks like he's about to cry. Ryan can't bear it. "It's _okay_ ," he says desperately. "I'm sorry. I didn't know about - her, your owner, anything. I forgot that you're like me. I forgot that - that you might not be able, that you couldn't tell me no. So I'm sorry. But it's over now and it's okay and you've got - you can have -" He gulps. "I'm too fucking selfish to give him up but you can have him too. And he's not like me. He's so much better than me. And you make him happy."

" _Ryan,_ " says Brendon, and his face crumples and then he is crying, ducking his head and letting go of the open flaps of his shirt so he can swipe his arm across his eyes.

Ryan can't just sit there anymore, even though the bed is comfortable and safe and smells of Spencer, so he climbs to his feet and says, "Bren-"

Brendon shakes his head hard and says, his voice choked and strange, "It's not - I'm not - you can't just, I... She wasn't like that, Ryan, she wasn't." He rubs at his eyes again, like he can force the tears away or hide them. "She wasn't, she would _never_ \- she was - I could have said no. If I didn't want it, I could have said no. But I did." He raises his head. His face is tearstained and miserable and determined. "I did, Ryan, I wanted her. I wanted you. I'm not - you can't forgive me, I don't fucking deserve it. I _always_ wanted you. Right from the beginning I -"

"It's okay," says Ryan, feeling strangely calm.

"It's _not_. You can't -"

"I can," says Ryan. "I can forgive you if I want to. You can't stop me."

"But -"

"Brendon," says Ryan. "Seriously, shut up. I can. I can do anything I like. And I _want_ to. And I'm still sorry."

Brendon stares at him.

"You saved my life," Ryan says.

"I -" Brendon's mouth works. "When?"

"You saved Spencer," says Ryan simply. "So you saved me."

He watches Brendon's eyes widen, watches him take a breath to say something else, and he says, "No, enough, all right? It's okay. It's all over now. And we're here and we're starting again."

There's a moment of silence.

"I - when are you going to leave?" Brendon says at last.

"What?" says Ryan.

"You're leaving. The three of you. Aren't you? I - when?"

 _Oh._ Ryan almost wants to laugh. "Brendon, the fuck," he says. "I promise, we aren't going anywhere without you. Like Spencer would even _let_ me. Even if I wanted to."

  
"Oh," says Brendon softly. "But I - oh."

Ryan shakes his head. "So it's fixed," he says. Things don't - things don't feel finished, but he doesn't know what else there is. It's fixed. He did it.

Brendon stares at him for a long moment, and bites his lip, and nods.

"Are you okay?" says Ryan. "Do you - do you want some help with your shirt?"

Brendon blinks and looks down at himself, the shirt hanging open still over his too-thin chest. "I - it's the buttons," he says. "I'm getting better, but there isn't anything in the world as annoying as buttons."

"Let me," Ryan says, stepping forward. Brendon hesitates, and then moves as well. They meet in the middle, between the bed and the window, and Ryan concentrates on his own hands slipping the buttons through the buttonholes, working upwards, and not on Brendon's skin or the way his breathing is still a little uneven after the tears. He drops his hands when he gets to the collar, leaves it open.

"Thank you," Brendon says.

"No problem."

"I -"

They're still standing very close together. Brendon shifts his weight nervously and looks down.

"Look, just - come here," Ryan says. He gets hold of him the way Spencer did earlier, arm around his waist, arm around his shoulders, and squeezes. Brendon freezes for a moment and then hugs him back tightly. It's weird and stiff, neither of them really relaxing, but it's still a fucking _hug_. Those work, right? Ryan knows they work when it's Spencer or Jon doing it - when it's him who needs it.

It doesn't last long, anyway. Brendon steps away. "Thanks," he says.

Ryan tries a smile. "And see, we didn't kill each other."

"No," Brendon agrees, with a kind of half-smile back. "No, we didn't."

They stare at each other for a moment.

"Breakfast?" suggests Ryan at last, hopefully.

Brendon seizes onto it. " _Breakfast,_ " he agrees fiercely, his eyes cutting away, looking down, but his smile turning into something like his real grin. "If Spence left anything. Come on, Ross."

_

 **  
_xxxiii._   
**

"Hey."

Spencer looks up from the porridge pot he's scraping clean. Ryan is standing in the kitchen doorway.

"It hasn't been half an hour," Ryan says. He tugs at the sleeves of his shirt and shifts his weight uncomfortably. "We didn't kill each other."

Spencer sets the pot down and steps over to Ryan. He puts his hands on Ryan's elbows, holds him at arm's length for a second. Ryan isn't smiling, but he looks - lighter, somehow, and a little uncertain, as though he doesn't know how he should be acting.

"Okay?" Spencer asks.

Ryan nods, and he gives a wobbly smile. "Yeah. Yeah, it's - it'll be okay."

"Okay," says Spencer. He and Ryan step forward at the same time, and he ends up kicking Ryan's foot as he pulls him into a hug. Ryan brings his arms up and clings back without hesitation, and it's good, it's _so fucking good_ , to be able to touch Ryan and hold him up and see him smile any time he wants. "Good," Spencer says into Ryan's hair. "That's good."

"Yeah. Do you, um. You want help?"

"You should eat," Spencer says. Ryan is still too skinny, and Spencer hasn't been paying as much attention as he should, hasn't been making sure that he's eating enough. "There's some left out there. You should get it before the kids eat everything."

Ryan says, "Yeah, okay." Then, about a minute later, "You have to let go of me if I'm gonna do that."

Spencer rolls his eyes and lets go. Ryan leans in to kiss him quickly. "The kids are totally whining that it's porridge again," he says.

Spencer rubs the small of Ryan's back. "Tell them they can make their own breakfast if they don't like it."

"But they love your cooking," Ryan says, eyes wide with completely unconvincing innocence. "We all do."

Spencer rolls his eyes and shoves Ryan lightly. "You want to end up wearing that porridge, asshole?"

Ryan smiles. "Not today, thanks." He slips away, disappearing through the door, and Spencer hears the familiar sound of boys' voices rising in _good morning_ from the dining room. Spencer continues cleaning up the kitchen a little bit. Some of the boys will help if he asks them, but it's usually faster to get it done while everybody else is eating.

He looks up when he hears footsteps behind him. He's expecting Ryan to be coming back, or maybe Brendon, but it's Toro. Spencer freezes. He doesn't mean to. He knows he doesn't have to, not now. Toro's had dozens of chances to ruin things for them, and every single time he's helped instead. But Spencer's hand tightens around a wooden spoon instinctively, and he takes a step back.

Toro notices, but he only flicks a glance at the spoon and says, "Thanks for breakfast."

Spencer nods slightly. He doesn't trust his voice to work properly.

"I'm leaving today," says Toro. He leans in the doorway and tucks his hands into his pockets. "I've been gone too long anyway. But I wanted to make sure..." He runs one hand through his wild hair. "I'm not going to make trouble for you, Spencer," he says. "I know you don't trust me. I don't know what the fuck happened to you, but I don't have to know to see it was pretty fucking serious, and you have good reason to be scared."

He seems to be waiting for Spencer to answer, so Spencer clears his throat and says, "You - you helped us. You didn't have to."

Toro smiles. "Like Gee and Mikey would ever let me live it down if I didn't." His expression goes serious again, and he says, "But I wanted to tell you before I leave - you guys have enough shit to worry about. You don't have to worry about me. I'll do what I can to make sure nobody's following Jon's trail. Or yours, if they're looking."

"They won't be looking," Spencer says. He feels his face grow hot. "I mean, they would, but I'm not worth that much."

Toro starts to say something, then he changes his mind and shakes his head. "I just - I wanted you to hear it from me."

He means it, Spencer can see that, and that's worth something. "Thank you," he says.

"You guys'll look after Mikey and Gerard while I'm gone?" Toro says. "They do mean well, and I think - well, I think they have a lot better idea what they're getting into now. But they're still..." He gestures vaguely; Spencer knows what he means. "They're still _them._ "

"I - yeah. We will. I don't know how much longer we'll be here," says Spencer. "But we will, as long as - we will."

Toro looks surprised. "You're leaving?"

Spencer shrugs. Toro looks at him searchingly for a moment before saying, "Well. Take care of yourself, Spencer." He takes a step forward like he's going to clap his hand on Spencer's shoulder, then he changes his mind and extends his hand instead. Spencer stares at it for a second before he thinks, _oh, right, handshake._ He shakes Toro's hand. He doesn't know what his face looks like, but it makes Toro smile wryly.

Spencer smiles a little too. "It's just that I've, um. This is new." He feels a sudden, giddy nervousness admitting that, but he doesn't want to take it back.

"Get used to it," says Toro. "See you around."

It takes a little while longer for Toro to actually leave. All the kids want to say goodbye to him, Jon spends a few minutes talking to him quietly by the stable, and Gerard insists on hugging him six or seven times before finally letting him go so Mikey can have a turn. Brendon gives him a hug too; Toro ruffles his hair and says something about the guitar that makes Brendon beam. Spencer has to smile when he sees that. Whatever else he's worried about, whatever fear and distrust he has remaining, it's hard not to smile when Brendon looks so happy.

By the time Toro finally mounts his horse and rides down the drive, it's well into the morning. Spencer hasn't finished the things he hoped to get done before noon. They need more food, and he's not sure he trusts Gerard to figure out just _what_ they need. He wants to make a list, but he thinks it might be better to get Ryan to write it, just to make sure it's legible and things are spelled correctly. He wanders around the house for a little bit, but he doesn't find Ryan - Spencer thinks he might be upstairs with Gerard, in the studio where the rest of them still don't go - so he goes outside instead, where a bunch of kids are chopping wood. Or trying to. Mostly they seem to be calling each other a bunch of names and swinging the axe around and laughing.

There are footsteps behind him, and Spencer turns. It's Jon. He's barefoot, and he's smiling and squinting in the sunlight. "Anybody lose any limbs yet?"

"Not yet," Spencer assures him. "I'm pretty sure they're not actually aiming at each other."

"That's good," Jon says. "I hate sewing arms back on. I can never keep the stitches even."

Spencer laughs, but it fades quickly when he sees the look on Jon's face. "What is it?"

"I talked to Ray before he left," Jon says, and shoves his hands awkwardly into his pockets. “You want to leave, Spence?”

Spencer stares at him. "You don't?" he asks. "I thought with -" Jon is looking up at him with an expression that little worried and a little sad, nothing like Spencer expected. "With everything that's happened," Spencer says. "I thought -"

Jon tilts his head to one side. "You don't like it here?"

"It's not safe here," Spencer says, too harshly. Jon flinches at his tone, but Spencer goes on, "It's not that I don't - the Ways, they're good, but - but I thought." He looks down at the ground. He feels stupid. He's been assuming Jon knew all this already, but there's no reason Jon should, not if Spencer never told him. He was stupid to assume.

"I didn't know you wanted to leave," Jon says after a moment. "I thought - I meant what I told you before, nobody will stop you if you want to go. But I thought you wanted to stay."

Without looking up, Spencer says, "It was supposed to be safe here."

There's a long silence. Spencer can hear Jon breathing, and the kids playing nearby, but he doesn't know what else to say. He doesn't know how to explain.

"Spence?" Jon asks gently. He steps a little closer, leaning down so he can look Spencer in the face even when he's trying to stare at the ground. "What is it?"

"I just want somewhere for them to be safe," Spencer says lamely. God, he sounds like such a fucking child. "I want Ryan and Brendon to be somewhere safe. Where they don't have to - where they won't get hurt anymore."

"They could get hurt anywhere," Jon says, but not meanly. "I know this has been - I know we haven't exactly gotten off to a smooth start here." He laughs brokenly, and Spencer has to look up then. Jon runs a hand over the back of his neck, and Spencer thinks about how tired he looks, how drained and pale even in the sun. "Fuck, I _know_ that, okay? But this is a good place. Better than most. I'll miss you guys if you leave."

"You - you're staying?"

Jon smiles sadly. "This is what I do, Spencer. Sometimes it really fucking sucks and things go wrong and you have to -" _bury your best friend_ , the grief is plain in his eyes. "But this is what I do. There are always more people to help."

Spencer feels guilt slicing through him, quick and sharp. "It's not that I don't want to help," he says. His mouth is suddenly too dry and his chest hurts. He reminds himself to breathe, crosses his arms over his chest and looks at Jon miserably. "You saved us. You - you saved Ryan, not just from the - not just that way, but you make him happy, and that's... I know we owe you. I know we should help, I know it's wrong to want to go -"

"No." It's just one soft word, but when Jon speaks Spencer falls silent. Jon reaches out tentatively and hesitates a second before putting his hand over Spencer's. Spencer wants to curl his hand into a fist and step away, but he doesn't let himself. He stares at their hands, Jon's closed over his, and wonders why his eyes are stinging. "It's not wrong. Spencer, look at me." He waits until Spencer looks up. "You don't owe me anything. That's not how this works. And it's not wrong to want to leave here, to get away from all this shit and find a different life, a safer life. It's _not wrong_ , Spencer. Don't think that. Please don't think that."

Spencer can't say anything. He lifts his hand without thinking to rub across his face, and he feels so ridiculous. He doesn't have any right to be upset. He knows Jon, he's known since the first time they met, when he was tied up and hurting and terrified and Jon helped him, kept him warm and dry and safe. That's who Jon _is_. And he's never said - he's talked to Ryan, and maybe Brendon, but he's never said to _Jon_ what he's been thinking.

"That's what you want?" Jon asks. "You want to leave here?"

"I don't want Ryan to be hurt anymore," Spencer says. Everything else is secondary, but Jon has to understand this, that Spencer's not trying to take Ryan away. He's just trying to keep him safe. "He's been hurt too much. For too long. I can't - I can't let that happen to him anymore."

"Spencer, that's not your..."

"No," he says, shaking his head. "It is. I _can't_. You don't understand."

"So tell me," Jon says. His hand is still covering Spencer's, warm and unmoving, and it's like every feeling in Spencer's skin is concentrated in his fingers, noticing that touch.

"I should have - from the beginning, I should have been able to keep him safe," Spencer says miserably. He doesn't plan to say anything at all, but this is Jon. _Ryan_ trusts Jon, and Ryan doesn't trust anybody, and the words are coming out before he can stop them. "I knew he was going to get into trouble. He's too - he was always free, he didn't know - And I couldn't, not - not enough. I couldn't do enough. I wasn't _trying_. I was too scared to try, that if I made them mad too, I thought they would take him like they took my sisters. I should have kept him from getting into trouble. I should have made him _listen._ "

"He should have listened," Jon says quietly. He curls his fingers around Spencer's. "I didn't know you had sisters."

Spencer swallows. "Yeah. Twins."

He closes his eyes. He hasn't thought of the night in years - all the time around it, the sunny days before and terrifying weeks after, he thinks of those, but not that night, when he was awoken by his father's shout and his mother's scream and the twins crying. But it's as clear now as though it happened yesterday. The raiders are dark shadows in their tiny hut, his father's voice is raised angrily then cut off with a shotgun blast, a dull thump on the floor, and his mother is lying in a pool of blood, weeping and pleading and saying his name over and over again, begging him to take care of the girls, to keep them safe, he had to _promise_ -

"I told her I would take care of them," he says. He doesn't realize he's crying until Jon touches his face softly, brushes away a tear.

"How old were you?" Jon asks. "Fourteen?" Spencer nods. "God, Spencer." He lets go of Spencer's hand, and Spencer grasps after it, feeling the loss, but a second later Jon's arms and wrapping around him, pulling him close. It's a little awkward. He's taller than Jon, and he doesn't know what to do, but Jon isn't holding back or hesitating. He's hugging Spencer as tightly as he can, murmuring something in Spencer's ear. It's a moment before Spencer understands: "Not your fault, you were just a kid too, not your fault."

Spencer tries to protest, but Jon hushes him. "It's not," he says, still holding Spencer. "What happened to your parents, your sisters - what happened to Ryan. I know you, Spencer. I know you did everything you could. You kept yourself alive. You kept Ryan alive. And you saved Brendon's life, and mine. We're all here now, and that's - that's a lot. Don't you see how fucking much you've done?"

Spencer clings for another couple of minutes. He wonders if the kids chopping wood have noticed, the two of them leaning together and him blubbering like a baby. If they do nobody bothers them. When he thinks he can speak again, he pulls back but doesn't let go of Jon's arms. "You want us to stay? To keep helping?"

"It doesn't matter what I want," Jon says. "What do you want? No, wait." He puts his finger to Spencer's lips as Spencer starts to answer, and he smiles. "Let's pretend I already know that you want to keep Ryan safe. And Brendon too. But what about you, Spence? What do you want for you?"

  
"I -" Ryan smiling like he used to, before the raid. Brendon laughing like he does sometimes, remembering that he's allowed now. And even Jon, his warm eyes keeping watch and his strong hands holding them up. But besides that. "I don't know," he says. "I don't know. I never -" There must be a thousand things he could say, but he can't think of one. "I don't know."

Jon rubs Spencer's arm reassuringly. "You don't have to decide right now," he says. "But you can think about it. If you want to leave, we'll figure out how you guys can do that. I'll miss the hell out of you, but I won't keep you here."

"Ryan -"

Jon shakes his head, maybe a little sadly. "Ryan will go wherever you go."

"Ryan wants to be with you." It doesn't hurt to say it as much as Spencer expects.

"Maybe we should ask Ryan what he wants to do before we start deciding for him," Jon says.

Spencer opens his mouth to answer, but what comes out is a surprised laugh. "Yeah. Maybe we should."

"Do you think they'll be okay?" Jon asks.

Spencer doesn't have to ask which _they_ he means. "You're asking me?"

"If anyone around here knows, it's you."

"I think..." Spencer takes a moment to think about it. He inhales, sniffling a little, and clears his throat. "I think so. I think it's... maybe it's better now. They both..." He pauses. He thinks about what Ryan said that morning and decides Jon must already know the story, or enough of it. "They both blame themselves."

Jon looks serious for a moment, thoughtful and quiet, then his smile grows wide, and he curls one hand around the back of Spencer's neck, warm and comforting. "There's a lot of that going around. You okay now?"

Spencer nods. He feels a little silly for breaking down today of all days, when things are going so well, but there's no judgment on Jon's face. "Are you?" he asks suddenly.

Jon's smile wavers, and the grief and worry are still there. He doesn't try to hide them. "Better," he says.

Spencer nods again. That's good enough for now.

He sits in the grass at the edge of the forest after Jon leaves. He feels a little twitchy just sitting still, not on his feet, not moving, not working even though the sun is high in the sky. It still feels strange. But no one's going to scold him for it, let alone beat him. He listens to the kids yelling and laughing, and he thinks about getting up and doing something about it when two of them start scuffling. But the others pull them apart before it gets serious.

"Hey," says Brendon behind him a while later, and Spencer jumps. Brendon laughs. "Sorry."

"No problem," says Spencer. Already there's a warm feeling in his chest, like the sun just got a little brighter. "Come and join me. Lots of room."

"The Ways must be so proud of their gardener," says Brendon, grinning as he drops down to sit cross-legged in the tall grass beside him.

"I'm pretty sure this place hasn't seen a gardener in twenty years," Spencer says.

"No, no, it's _supposed_ to look like an impassable wilderness," says Brendon. "It's the very latest thing." He waggles his eyebrows.

Spencer laughs and leans back on his elbows. "Sure it is. Maybe I should do some weeding. That was - I used to do that, at the farm."

"Under no circumstances should you do any weeding," says Brendon sternly. "You'll _spoil_ it."

"Oh, in that case." Spencer grins at him. Brendon smiles back, but there's a tiny uncertain edge to it. "Bden?" says Spencer.

Brendon laughs. " _Bden_ ," he repeats, testing the name on his tongue, and then hesitates. Spencer waits the moment out, closes his eyes and listens to the rustle of wind in the trees and the boys laughing. Eventually Brendon says, "Do you - I mean - he -"

"He what?" says Spencer. "Ryan?"

"Yeah," says Brendon. "Do you think he meant it?"

He sounds as doubtful as Spencer's ever heard him. "He did," he says at once. "Brendon, he did."

"I -" Brendon sighs and flops onto his back, looking sideways at Spencer through the grass. "I don't know why. I don't know why he'd - when he could just get rid of me and forget about me, easily. I thought maybe it was for you. Because you," he looks away from Spencer's eyes, "you want me." The words sound like a question, and Spencer makes a noise in his throat, sits up and reaches out. Brendon doesn't take his hand, though. He just shakes his head and says, "But he said he wouldn't do that."

"He wouldn't," says Spencer at once. He knows Ryan. Or rather - "He couldn't."

"That's what he told me," says Brendon. "But -"

"Brendon," says Spencer, and he rolls over to lie down again half on top of him in the grass, thighs pressed together, hips bumping, an arm flung over his chest. He kisses Brendon's jawline, because it's there. Brendon sighs and goes pliant under him, and the sunlight is warm and the spring smell of green things growing is in the air. Brendon turns his head and Spencer kisses his throat again, nips at the skin with his teeth as he pulls away, just a little, because he can't help it. He's starting to learn the noises Brendon makes.

Brendon gasps and tips his head back further, and Spencer pushes himself up with one arm so he can look at him. "If you're trying to be distracting," Brendon says, starting to grin up at him, "it's working." Spencer smirks and kisses him. Brendon cards his hands into Spencer's hair and leaves them there as they kiss, and his mouth is open and warm as their tongues tangle together. He hasn't shaved in a few days so there's a faint rough shadow of stubble on his face.

Spencer breaks the kiss and runs his hand over Brendon's jaw, presses a kiss high on his cheekbone and says, "You should get rid of this. I don't -"

(It reminds him of Brendon in the infirmary at the Beckett place, those three long awful days when he wouldn't wake and wouldn't move, and how dark the stubble looked against his sickly-pale skin.)

"Okay," says Brendon agreeably, turning his head to kiss Spencer's fingers. "Anything you _like_ , seriously, just." He uses his hands in Spencer's hair to tug Spencer's mouth closer to his. "Seriously," he whispers, his breath warm against Spencer's face. The arm Spencer's using to prop himself up feels like it's going to give way, so he lets himself collapse, rolls over onto his back and pulls Brendon with him, on top of him, and they fall back into the kiss like it never went away. Spencer keeps his hands on Brendon's waist and it all feels strangely innocent, lazy and satisfying and warm, and honestly, he thinks he could do this all day.

But then Brendon groans into his mouth and his hips buck. Spencer gasps at the feeling and his hands slide down involuntarily, grasping at Brendon's hips, his ass, pulling him closer, and okay, maybe not so innocent after all. He rolls his hips up, testing, and grins at the noise Brendon makes, at how he can feel him getting hard already through the layers of fabric between them. Brendon says, "Spence -"

"Brendon, Brendon!" yells someone. "Brendon, where are you? Brendon!"

It's one of the kids, and he's way too fucking close. Brendon makes a really annoyed noise and rolls off Spencer, tugging his shirt straight where it's ridden up over his stomach. "Wrong place to do this," he says wryly.

"Fucking kids," says Spencer fervently, as he sits up. Brendon's got grass in his hair. Spencer can't take his eyes off him.

"Well, maybe we - oh." Brendon's looking right at him suddenly, mouth a little open, face still flushed. His lips are red from kissing - _oh fuck, your mouth_ , Spencer thinks, and that's a thought he could get used to, when he sees Brendon like this - and his gaze dips, sweeping over Spencer's shoulders and arms before coming back up and focusing on his mouth. Spencer swallows and licks his lips self-consciously. Brendon imitates the movement without thinking and that makes Spencer go red, he knows it does - and then their eyes meet and Brendon laughs a little bit and says, "Okay, you're right, _fucking_ kids."

"There you are!" It's Cash and his friends, jogging up to them. Spencer groans. "We were looking for you everywhere."

"Hey," says one of the Alexes. Spencer still hasn't worked out which one is which, and he's given up trying. "Were you guys having sex? Right out here?"

Cash whoops. "They were _not_! Were you?" he says to Brendon. "You weren't, right? Hey, hey, you _were_! You were having sex!"

Spencer ducks his head, and fuck, this is embarrassing. Brendon looks rueful. "Not really your business, guys."

"Are you sure? Just, if you were, we could go away again," says the Alex, "and, you know, come back when you guys are done..."

The kid actually sounds earnest about it. Spencer blinks and looks up, just in time to see all five of them dissolve into howls of laughter, the little shits. Brendon uproots a handful of dead dry grass and tosses it at them and says, "Did you guys just come here to spoil my day or what?"

"Um," says Cash, suddenly serious. "Actually, we - we were wondering. We thought, now Ray's gone -"

"What's going to happen to us?" asks the one with the curly hair - Ian? "Where are we going to go? We can't all stay here forever, can we." It's not a question, though the kid looks like he wishes it was.

Brendon glances at Spencer, and then turns back to the kids to answer. "I don't know, guys," he says. "I'm not - I don't run anything around here. I think Jon's been sending messages to the Cobra about all of you. They're probably going to try to find foster families, or move you on to other safehouses in other provinces, maybe even in other countries." The kids are looking more and more upset as he goes on, and Brendon looks worried too. "I promise, you'll be safe. The Cobra people are good at this. Everything's going to be fine -"

"You won't be split up," says Spencer hoarsely.

The kids all turn around to stare at him. The force of those five pairs of eyes is stronger than he thought it would be.

"You won't," he repeats. "We can promise you that. Wherever you end up going, we'll make sure you stay together."

Cash folds his arms, and the others all copy the gesture. "Good," he says, defiant somehow. "Good. That's - that's good."

"I - shit, Cash, of course," says Brendon. "I'll talk to Jon, I'll make sure he understands. You need your friends, right?"

"Right," says Cash. He grins. "Hey, you two stopped fighting now, right?"

"Well, yeah. They're having _sex_ now," says an Alex gleefully.

"Oh, _shut up_ ," says Brendon. " _Yes_ , Johnson, I'm looking at you." Someone snickers. "I heard that," Brendon adds. Spencer suppresses a grin.

"So yeah, that's all. We'll leave you to it," says Cash. "Have fun! You'll name the baby after me, right?" Brendon groans, and Cash starts jogging off. The other kids follow him. Spencer hears one of them say, "Caaaaash. You do know that's not how sex works, right?"

He looks at Brendon. Brendon looks at him.

They both start giggling. "Maybe - maybe not outside next time?" Spencer manages.

" _Definitely_ not," says Brendon. He grins at Spencer and runs his hand through his hair and Spencer just feels warm inside. It's suddenly easy to ask, "Hey, Brendon - what do you want?"

Brendon's the most like him. Brendon's never been free either.

Brendon blinks and says, "How do you mean?"

"Just," says Spencer. "For, I don't know, the future. Or. Anything. What do you want?"

Brendon stretches and gets to his feet. He seems to be thinking about it. "I don't know," he says. "I -" He holds out a hand to help Spencer up, and says quickly as Spencer gets to his feet, "You."

"Yeah?" says Spencer softly. He's grinning all over his face, he can feel it. The breeze picks up a little, and it's cool against his skin as they stand there together, still holding hands.

"Yeah," says Brendon, flushing, not quite meeting his eyes. "Yeah, you. And - and I want Ry -" He fidgets. "I mean, I want Ryan and Jon to be happy. And I want - I guess I want music, but then I always want that, and if my fucking shoulder actually worked again that would be nice, and I'd like -" He swallows. "I'd like to see Lady Victoria again. And, you know, be conscious this time, and… stuff."

"She was - what was she?" says Spencer.

"I - she was my owner." Brendon shakes his head. "That's not what you're asking, is it? She was... I guess, I guess she was my Ryan."

Spencer tilts his head.

Brendon laughs shakily. "Except not, right, because I knew her for four years, and you've been together for -"

"Fifteen," Spencer says. "Or longer, but I didn't know him when we were really tiny."

"I can't even imagine that," says Brendon. "I mean - my first owner, I was with him for six years. That's the longest I've ever known anyone."

There's a long pause.

"Well," says Spencer. "That's going to change."

"Yeah?" Brendon sounds a little shaky about it.

"Yeah. You're not getting rid of me." He tugs Brendon closer, into a hug, and buries his face in his hair. "Seriously. Don't even try."

Brendon clings to him for a moment, and then lets go.

"So," he says. "That's - all that's what I want. And, I suppose." He smiles a little bit. "It's like Cash says. You need your friends, right? So that's what I want, too. Most of all, maybe. I -" He stops. "That."

Spencer nods, and screws up his courage, and says, "How do you know?"

"What?"

"How do you - how do you _know_ what you want? How do you know when you've never -"

"Spencer," says Brendon, and kisses him quickly. "You - I - I don't know. I just had to - when you asked, I just had to look at you and it was easy."

"Oh," Spencer says, and really, that doesn't help at all.

"I should go make the kids do chores,” Brendon says regretfully after a moment. “There's all sorts of things that need doing -"

"Yeah," Spencer says. "And there's always tonight, right?"

"Our room," says Brendon. "No one to bother us but the squirrels."

"Those fucking squirrels."

"Those fucking _kids._ "

They grin at each other, and Brendon goes.

Spencer should go find something to do as well, but instead he sits back down in the grass and tries to think.

[Chapter Sixteen](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/4745.html)


	17. But Not The Song (16/17)

_  
**But Not The Song (16/17)**   
_   
[Story Index and Warnings](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/446.html)

[Chapter Fifteen](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/4522.html)

  
**  
_xxxiv._   
**

A few days after Toro leaves, another rider comes up the drive. It's about an hour before nightfall, and they're not expecting anyone. Some of the kids come racing into the house, shouting for Jon.

"Who is it?"

"Is it the sheriff?"

"Is it the army?"

"Are they going to take us away?"

"Nobody ever comes here!"

Jon holds up his hands. "Whoa, hey. Calm down. It's just a visitor. It might not be anything bad."

Gerard says, "Well, they're right. Nobody ever comes here." He looks worried but he's trying to hide it from the kids, although that's a skill he hasn't quite mastered yet. "Should I go talk to him?"

"I will," Bob says, looming behind Gerard. He points at Jon, then glares at the rest of them. "You, stay out of sight. All of you."

He waits until Jon and the kids - and Gerard - are out of the entry hall before he opens the front door. Jon hovers just around the corner in one of the front rooms, out of sight but listening. Bob should have waited until the visitor knocked, that's what a man-at-arms would do, but maybe it's better this way, not giving any stranger a reason to come into the house.

"So you're the welcoming party?" the visitor says.

Jon would know that voice anywhere. He dashes out of the room and pushes by Bob before he gets a chance to answer.

Butcher is standing at the bottom of the front steps, holding his horse's reins and grinning.

Jon jumps down the steps in a single leap and throws his arms around him. "What the fuck are you doing here, you asshole? You could've sent word you were coming!"

"I am word," says Butcher, still grinning. He squeezes Jon's shoulders and glances past him, toward the open door of the house. "So you're running an orphanage now?"

Jon looks around and see that Gerard has joined Bob in the doorway, both of them watching with interest. "Something like that," he says. "Butcher, this is Gerard. Lord Way. And Bob Bryar. Gerard, Bob, this is Andy Mrotek, but we call him Butcher. He's one of ours."

Gerard smiles widely and comes down to shake Butcher's hand. "Hi! It's so great to have another one of Jon's friends here." He looks around and waves vaguely toward the stable. "That's where the horses are, and all the others are... Well. Inside. Make yourself at home. Jon can show you whatever."

"Go tell the kids it's okay to come out," Jon says, and to Butcher, "Come on, I'll show you the stable."

Butcher waits until they're at the door of the stable before he stops and says, "Hey."

Jon slides the door open and raises his eyebrows. "Hey?"

"Jon. I'm sorry about Tommy."

Jon's been expecting it, but it's still like a punch to the gut, hearing it out loud. He looks away quickly, into the stable, and swallows painfully a few times. "It was his -" He can't even pretend his voice isn't shaking. "The dumb fucker, his smartass mouth got him in trouble."

Butcher doesn't say anything for a second, but Jon doesn't go into the stable. The interior is dim and dusty, nothing but shadows beyond the square of sunlight from the door, and Jon feels suddenly claustrophobic.

"You didn't say what happened," says Butcher. "In your letter. What happened?"

"We fucked up," Jon snaps. "He's dead. What the hell more do you need to know?" He walks through the stable to the end of the row of stalls, and he hears Butcher leading the horse in behind him. He stops before one of the stalls and glares at the mare who pokes her head between the bars to nudge his shoulder. He doesn't say anything, and he doesn't turn around while Butcher brushes his horse and leads her into a stall, gives her food and water and cleans the tack.

"We've been worried about you, man," says Butcher. He's a lot closer now, just a few steps behind Jon. Jon turns around reluctantly and crosses his arms over his chest. "You send us a letter saying all hell's broken loose but you don't give any details... I know it's not the same, not like with you, but he was our friend too, and we're really fucking... We're worried about you, okay?"

Jon runs a hand over his face and exhales slowly. "Sorry," he mutters. And he is. He should have given them more information. He knows how this works. The Cobra is a network and information is vital. Vague messages don't help anybody, and everything he didn't say in his letter he's only going to have to say out loud eventually. "Later, okay?" he says, and he tries not to sound pleading. "It's - it's a fucking long story, and I want -"

He wants never to talk about it again, that's what he wants. He wants this knot of fear and grief in his gut to go away and never return. He wants to go back to that night and change his mind, to actually think it through before going to speak to the smugglers, to take a fucking moment to be distrustful.

He wants Tom to be alive again.

There's no fucking point in wanting anything right now.

Jon only says, "Later."

"Sure," says Butcher easily. "It's been a long day anyway. I don't suppose you feed your guests around here, do you?"

"If you ask nicely," Jon says, forcing a lightness he doesn't feel into his voice. He's pretty sure Butcher isn't convinced, but he doesn't care. "Spencer does most of the cooking, or tells the kids how to do it." At the look on Butcher's face, Jon shakes his head and smiles a little in spite of himself. "Yeah, you might want to reconsider your intentions there."

Butcher looks at him for a second, then shakes his head. "Fuck, you do like things complicated, Walker."

"No, that's not what I -" Jon makes a face when Butcher smiles, a little uncertain but enough to make him sigh and say, "Never mind, asshole. Let's go eat. You'll have to fight about twenty-five ex-gladiator kids for your meal. It's a fucking madhouse around here."

"Well, I might have some good news about that," says Butcher. They leave the stable and slide the door shut behind them. The sun is setting behind the trees, and through the open windows of the house Jon can hear the voices of boys laughing and talking. "Saporta's been making arrangements, asking around, looking for foster families for the kids. It'll take a while to find places for all of them, but he's got some in mind already."

It should be good news, but Jon finds himself frowning. "What kind of families? I don't want to ship them off to live with assholes who want cheap labor without paying for a slave."

Butcher rolls his eyes. "Give us a little credit, Walker. We have done this before."

Jon shrugs apologetically, but he says, "These kids have been through hell. We should be careful, that's all I'm saying."

"I don't think it's the gladiator kids you're worried about," says Butcher. When Jon glares at him, he looks back evenly and adds, "That's all I'm saying."

Jon introduces Butcher to the kids at dinner, and then he watches with mild amusement as Butcher starts talking to Spencer and both Ryan and Brendon alternate between glaring and pretending (not very convincingly) not to notice at all. _Complicated_ is one word for it, he thinks. He leans over and says to Ryan, "You know you don't have to be jealous."

Ryan stiffens for a second, then he relaxes and rolls his eyes a little self-consciously. "Habit," he says.

After dinner, when the dishes are washed and Brendon has herded the boys upstairs for bed, Jon says to Butcher, "I don't think we'll have to make you sleep outside, but it might take a while to find a free bed."

"No problem," says Butcher. "It's a warm night." He leans his chair back and puts his feet up on the table, then looks around guiltily and drops them to the floor again. "You gonna tell me what the hell happened now?"

The dining room is empty and echoing around them, lit by too many candles dripping in clusters along the length of the table. Jon's sitting a few chairs down from Butcher, and his voice sounds too loud when he says, "I already told you. We fucked up." He pauses and leans forward, folding his arms on the table and lowering his head. He licks his lips. His mouth is dry, "It was my fault."

"Jon, it -"

"It was my fucking idea that we go talk to them," Jon interrupts harshly.

"Jonny," says Butcher.

"It was," says Jon, thankful that Butcher can't see his face right now because he doesn't even know how he must look. "It was. I got here barely half an hour before Toro did, he told us about the smugglers and I fucking well jumped at the chance. I dragged - Tom -" His voice cracks.

"Hey, Jonny, no -" Butcher says, putting a hand on his shoulder. Jon twists away from it.

"I got _careless_ ," he says. "I wanted to - I don't know. It was so fucking good to be back where I could _do_ something, and Spence and Ryan were fighting, and -" He gasps, "I fucked up, Andy, I fucked up so _bad_ and I don't know what to do. I'm just fucking useless now. I can't show my face anywhere thanks to fucking _Pete_. All I can do is sit here and play babysitter, and I'm not even that fucking good at it. If it weren't for Brendon we'd be in such -" He swallows, breathes out. His heart is racing and he doesn't know why. "I want Tom," he whispers. "I want Tom to come and tell me to stop being such a fucking idiot."

Butcher makes a low sound in his throat and says, "Come here, Walker." When Jon doesn't move Butcher goes to him and hugs him, quick and tight. It's an awkward position, and Jon's shoulders don't relax, but he drops his head forward a little further and lets the tears come. His eyes are hot and his skin feels too tight and there's a slow headache starting in his temples, and god, god, god, _fuck._

Butcher lets him go, but keeps a hand on his shoulder. "Where do they keep the liquor in this place?"

Jon shakes his head. He doesn't feel like he can talk, and anyway he doesn't know.

"Right. I'm going to find Way. Don't go anywhere." Butcher pats his shoulder. "We'll drink to his memory, Jonny."

"I think," says Jon, and his voice comes out small and choked, "I don't think they're drinkers, Butcher."

"They - ah hell," says Butcher. "Okay, I've got some whiskey with me, at least. We'll finish it off in his honor."

They end up outside, sitting in front of the house and passing Butcher's hipflask back and forth while the gargoyles glare down. Jon looks up at the stars and thinks of odd things. How he used to have a cat, and he doesn't know what happened to it. Having to learn to ride in a hurry when Pete decided 'stable boy' was a good cover, and laughing at Tom's expression the first time his horse threw him into the grass. How long it's been since he's seen his brothers and spent a day on the water in their fishing boats. The way Ryan's eyes looked too big for his face, the first time Jon saw him. The fact that he still has a blister on his thumb.

"We buried him," he says heavily to the clear night sky. "Ryan and me, we buried him, under a tree, we -" And then he's sobbing, head down between his bent knees, and Butcher is leaning against him whispering harshly, "Fuck, fuck, I don't believe -" He sounds choked up too.

Someone says, "Oh."

Jon looks up, and Mikey's there on the driveway, the frames of his glasses reflecting the moonlight. There's no sign of anyone else, but Jon has a vague feeling that someone was just there, disturbing the shadows.

"You're drinking," says Mikey flatly.

"What about it?" says Jon. He feels raw and ready to crack open and he'd kind of like to punch someone in the face. He's got nothing against Mikey. Mikey's just _there_ , one more part of this fucking awful house and this fucking awful place and this fucking awful world where Tom's dead and there's nothing anyone can do.

Mikey blinks. "Just - stay away from Gerard. If you're doing that," he says, and walks on past them. Jon snarls and starts to stand up, but Butcher puts a hand on his arm.

"Shit, Jon, it wasn't that much whiskey," he says - and Jon realizes he must be pretty upset, because Butcher almost never calls him Jon, it's always _Jonny_ or _Walker._

"Fuck," he says, jerking his arm away. "Just - _fuck._ "

"Yeah," says Butcher. "I know." But he doesn't try to touch Jon again. After a few minutes of silence, he stands up and says, "Okay. We need to get you to bed."

The night is cool and quiet and peaceful, nothing but moonlight and shadows. Going back into the stifling, dusty house, to the bed where he lies beside Ryan without touching him and dreams of gunshots and blood, it's about the last thing Jon wants to do. He says, "No." But he stands up anyway, and he doesn't shy away when Butcher puts a steadying hand on his elbow and leads him inside. They don't see Gerard or anybody else, and about halfway up the stairs Jon remembers, "You need a room."

"I'll find something," says Butcher. " _You_ need to sleep."

"No point," says Jon. "I already know what I'll dream." Shit, he's not _that_ drunk, and he's said enough self-pitying crap for one night. Butcher's nice enough not to call him on it, though. He just bids him good night when they reach Jon's room and walks away down the hall, peering into open doorways as he passes. Jon watches him for a moment, then turns the knob on his own door and goes inside.

The only light in the room is the moonlight through the window, but it's bright enough for him to see Ryan lying on the bed, curled onto his side with his back to the door. He doesn't stir when Jon shuts the door. Jon sheds his shirt on his way to the bed and sits down heavily. The room isn't spinning but it's not quite still either, and all he can think is that when he closes his eyes he'll be _there_ again, in the cage, in the dark, sweat and blood and shouts and Tom alive beside him then _not_ , and there isn't enough whiskey in the fucking world to change those nightmares.

He exhales shakily and rubs a hand over his face. It might be easier just to sit here, not sleeping, until morning.

"Jon?"

Oh. "Sorry," he says hoarsely. "Thought you were asleep."

The mattress sinks and the blankets tug a little. Jon doesn't turn around, but he feels Ryan sitting up just behind him. "You okay?"

Jon clears his throat. "Fine. I didn't mean to wake you."

"Are you -"

Jon squeezes his eyes shut. " _Fine_ ," he says again. It comes out a lot harsher than he means it to. He doesn't know if he can feel Ryan flinch or if he's only imagining it. "Go back to sleep."

But Ryan doesn't move. He's so close, not touching but near enough that Jon can feel the warmth along his back. Or maybe he's imagining that part too. It doesn't matter. He should have stayed outside. He starts to stand up, but Ryan puts a hand on his shoulder to stop him. "Hey," Ryan says, no more than a whisper, really, and his hand is warm on Jon's bare shoulder and his grip is strong, surprisingly strong, for someone who looks like he would break in a stiff breeze, but Jon thinks he shouldn't be surprised. "Maybe you should..."

He trails off, and whatever he thinks Jon should do, he doesn't say. There's a brief silence - seconds, minutes, Jon has no idea, he's thinking about Ryan's hand on his shoulder and his weight on the bed and how much he wants to lean back and let Ryan hold him up even though that's not how they work, not what they do - then Ryan lets out a small sound, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. Jon feels breath ghosting over his skin, and Ryan kisses the back of his neck. It's quick and shy, a question quickly withdrawn, but Jon feels it in a shiver that goes all the way down his spine.

He lets himself lean back then, against Ryan, _into_ Ryan, and both of them are shirtless so it's skin against skin and he can't _not_ , not with Ryan's hand on his skin and arm hooking lightly, hesitantly around Jon's waist, pulling him closer. Ryan lays another kiss on Jon's neck and his lips are damp like he's just licked them, his teeth scraping over Jon's skin with the faintest touch.

Jon tries to say something, _wait_ or _Ryan_ or _please_ , but all that comes out is a surprised nonsense noise. He twists around - _too fast, too fast_ , but Ryan doesn't flinch away - wraps one hand around Ryan's neck and pulls him into a kiss. He turns more, the angle is bad and he doesn't want to stop, he wants to be closer, _closer_ , and _god_ , it's so fucking good, to touch Ryan and feel him so responsive and so _alive_. Jon puts his hand on Ryan's side, along the too-prominent line of his ribs, and feels Ryan's breath hitch beneath his fingers and against his mouth. He slides one hand down to Ryan's hip, the other up to tangle in his hair -

And Ryan _freezes_. He goes abruptly, immediately still, not moving a muscle, not even breathing. It takes Jon's mind a few seconds to catch up. He's still kissing Ryan, he's still thinking _yes, please, yes_ , but Ryan is rigid under his hands and when he makes a noise it's not a good sound, not a _pleased_ sound. It's small and choked off and sudden, and Jon knows in an instant that Ryan is trying not to cry out and pull away.

Jon's mind stutters over _what_ to _no, fuck, no_ , and he's saying, "Ryan, hey, Ryan, it's..." He untangles his hand from Ryan's hair and leans back, tries to give him space.

If Ryan hears him, he doesn't give any sign. He's not still anymore. He's shaking, it's not cold enough for him to be shivering but his entire body is trembling and Jon can feel it every place they're touching and god, oh god, this is all wrong, he didn't mean to - he knows this is wrong, he's asking too fucking much and he's not fucking drunk enough to forget, he _knows_ -

"Oh, god," he says, moving away. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I didn't - _Ryan_."

Ryan isn't looking at Jon. His head is bowed, every line of his body meek and submissive and every fucking thing Jon never wants to see in him again. Jon reaches out hesitantly - he wants to touch him, shake him, _hold_ him, anything to snap him out of it and make it _stop_ \- but before Jon can lay a hand on him, Ryan lets out a furious, strangled snarl -" _Don't fucking touch me_ " - and he lashes out, slapping Jon's hand and shoving him away.

Jon's perched precariously on the edge of the bed and he's already unsteady. He tumbles backwards and falls to the floor, lands with a jarring thump. Pain shoots through his elbow and he gasps, and suddenly he doesn't feel very drunk at all anymore.

"Ryan," he says, pushing himself upright. His voice is shaking, he can barely form words, but he has to try, he has to _say_ , "Ryan, it's okay, I'm not - I won't -"

For one long, frozen moment Ryan stares down at him, his eyes huge and his face pale in the moonlight, then he's scrambling away, across the bed and out of Jon's sight. Jon jumps to his feet, ignoring the dizziness that sweeps over him, and he hurries around the bed. "Please, please, just, _please_ ," and he can't think of anything else to say, but Ryan isn't listening anyway, he's just staring at Jon wide-eyed in the darkness. Jon has no fucking idea what he sees. Ryan backs away from him like - like a fucking trapped animal, backing into the corner, his hands clenched in fists at his sides.

" _Fuck_ ," Jon says, and no, god no, this is all wrong. He swallows and takes a breath, another, and another, struggling for calm around the sick, black panic he feels.

He takes a step forward, and Ryan flinches visibly, crosses his arms over his chest and shrinks further into the corner.

"I'm sorry," Jon says desperately. "Ryan, Ryan, I'm so fucking sorry, I shouldn't have - I'm sorry. I'll just -" _Leave_ , but he can't do that either; he won't leave Ryan alone. "Ryan, please, say something? Please?" He's begging, he's _pleading_ , but he can't bring himself to move at all.

Instead of answering, Ryan sinks to the floor and draws his knees up to his chest. He wraps his arms around his legs and lowers his head, and his shoulders are shaking but he's not making a sound. Jon wants to go to him - _god_ , he wants to, to hold him and soothe him and make him see that he's safe, that he's never going to be hurt again, but his feet are rooted to the floor and he can't. He can't, he'll only make it worse, he'll frighten Ryan more.

So he watches, and he forces himself to breathe, and there's only one thing he can do. "Okay."

Ryan doesn't look up or give any other sign that he's heard.

"I'm going to - I'll be right back, okay?" No answer. "I'm not leaving you. I'll be right back."

Jon turns and races out of the room, down the hallway to the room Spencer is sharing with Brendon. He's already shoving the door open and bursting in before he thinks about knocking, but it's too late and the sound of the door hitting the bedroom wall wakes both of them. They bolt upright, confused and frightened, but before they can speak Jon says, "Ryan. He's - Spencer, he needs -"

Spencer is out of the bed before Jon can finish, asking, "What happened?" in a tight, terrified voice even as he's shoving by Jon and striding away. Jon turns to follow but his legs are wobbly underneath him and he stumbles against the doorframe.

"What the fuck, Jon?" Brendon is beside him. He looks tousled and annoyed and scared, but he's gentle when he slings his arm around Jon's waist to hold him up. "Are you drunk?"

"No," says Jon. "Yes. I don't know. Yes. _Fuck._ "

"Is Ryan okay? What happened?"

"He's - he's -" Definitely, absolutely, not okay, because Jon is a fucking moron and he made everything worse. He was trying to be a good thing, a safe place for Ryan because that's what Ryan needs, but he's always making every fucking thing worse when he tries to help and it would be better if he just stopped trying, stopped interfering, _stopped_ -

"Yeah," says Brendon. Jon hadn't realized he was speaking out loud. "That's a bunch of bullshit, Jon Walker. Let's go see, okay?" Brendon doesn't sound like himself; he sounds calmer, steadier, even though it's obviously an effort. It takes Jon a second to understand that Brendon is trying to calm _him_ down. Calm him down, and walk him down the hallway. Jon's pretty sure he can actually walk by himself, but Brendon's got a good grip on him and he's not trying to get away.

The door to Jon and Ryan's room is still open, and in the corner Spencer is sitting on the floor next to Ryan, speaking to him softly. Ryan is still hugging his legs to his chest, his face still buried in his knees, but he doesn't fight or try to get away when Spencer tugs him out of the corner and wraps him in a fierce, encompassing hug. Spencer whispers something against Ryan's hair, and Ryan lets himself be hugged, the two of them curling together like they have a thousand times before. Jon feels a twist of something that's more guilt than jealousy. He waits for something - for Spencer to look up at him with angry accusation in his eyes, for Ryan to remember he's there and panic again - but it's like they've forgotten the rest of the world exists.

Brendon tugs at Jon's hand. "Come on," he whispers.

Jon follows him out of the room, and he makes it about halfway down the hallway before he stops short, doubles over in pain, and vomits until he's rid of everything he's ate and drank that evening.

He hears Brendon's surprised, "Oh, _fuck_ , what a fucking -" But then he's quiet, and Jon is still bent over, resting his hands on his knees, and he feels a hand on his back. "Are you - okay, done now?" The anger is gone from Brendon's voice; he only sounds tired now.

Jon nods and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth.

Brendon takes his elbow - the same one he slammed into the floor earlier, Jon can feel the bruise - and tugs until he's standing upright. "You go - no, don't step it in, dumbass. You go get yourself cleaned up. There's a wash basin in our room. I'll take care of this."

Jon's fucking up a lot of things tonight, but he's not that much of an asshole. "No, I can do it, I'll -"

"Go," Brendon says, giving him a slight shove.

"I _can_ ," Jon insists. "You don't have to -"

It's dark in the hallway, but there's enough light for Jon to see Brendon roll his eyes and look up at the ceiling. "How is it that I'm not the stupidest person standing in this hallway right now? Jon, get into that fucking room and get yourself cleaned up. I will drag you if I have to."

Jon blinks at him and tries to remember if he's ever heard Brendon give anybody a direct order before. But Brendon only stares at him, then points toward the room when Jon doesn't move right away, so Jon does as he's told. He washes up and tries to rinse the foul taste from his mouth, then sits on the edge of the bed to wait. He can hear Brendon in the hallway, water sloshing in a bucket and a mop swiping across the floor, and he feels a moment of brief, irrational panic when he hears Brendon walking away again, his footsteps fading down the stairs.

It's a few minutes before he comes back, and when he does Jon is still sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Now you're going to sleep," says Brendon.

Jon's pretty sure that's going to be impossible, but he shrugs and lies down, closes his eyes. The bed dips when Brendon lies beside him, and Jon rolls a little bit to let him tug the blankets.

They lie in silence for a few minutes. Then Jon says, "I'm not _that_ drunk."

Brendon makes a startled noise, and it occurs to Jon that he might have been half asleep. "Where did you even get anything to drink, anyway? Gerard hates it. He doesn't keep any in the house."

Jon wants to know how Brendon knows that and how Jon has failed to notice all this time, but he only says, "Butcher."

"Oh."

"I'm not that drunk," says Jon again. "I should have known it wasn't - I should have known." He knows he's not making much sense, but he needs to say it. He needs to tell _someone_ , and he can't apologize to Ryan right now.

The bed jostles a little, and Jon turns his head to see Brendon rolling onto his side, looking at Jon in the moonlight. "I have no idea what just happened," Brendon says. Jon can't figure out his voice at all. Brendon's usually so easy to read, but his face is in shadow and his words are low, strangely sad, so very unfamiliar. "I think I can guess, but I think it also probably doesn't matter that much. Whatever happened - if Ryan can forgive _me_ , Jon, I know things will be okay for you, with him. They will. You're pretty good at taking care of people, you know?" Jon laughs shortly, surprised at the change in subject, but Brendon ignores him and goes on. "You probably don't think so right now, but you are. But I think maybe with what happened to Tom, with everything, it shouldn't have taken us so long to see that you might need taking care of too."

"I'm fine," Jon says automatically. He turns his head again and stares up at the ceiling. "This isn't your job, you don't have to -"

Brendon moves fast. Jon barely takes a breath, can't even finish his sentence, and Brendon is throwing one arm over Jon's chest and pulling him close in an awkward, uncomfortable, sideways hug that squeezes Jon's breath out of him. He goes tense for a moment, but Brendon doesn't let go. "Sorry," he murmurs, his mouth very close to Jon's ear. "We should have noticed. We'll be better, okay? I will."

Jon exhales in surprise, then relaxes slowly. "You don't have to."

Brendon squeezes him again. For such a skinny guy, he's got an impressive grip. "Maybe I want to."

Jon leans his head slightly to one side, against Brendon's shoulder, and he doesn't move even after Brendon's breathing slows and he falls asleep.

_

 _  
**xxxv.**   
_

Spencer sits beside Ryan in the darkness and holds on. It's an uncomfortably familiar feeling, except that Ryan never used to say anything. He used to only cling in silence. But he's talking now. Spencer concentrates on that.

"I don't," whispers Ryan. "I can't. I don't know why I thought I could. I can't."

"Shh, shh," Spencer tells him. "Shh."

"I can't," says Ryan. He's not crying. His voice sounds too thin and jagged for tears. "I can't. Spencer, maybe I never -"

Spencer holds him tighter and tries to ignore the way his heart is twisting. Ryan goes stiff, though, fighting his grip, so Spencer makes himself relax again, lets his arms loosen in case Ryan wants to get away. That's enough, apparently; Ryan stills.

"I can't," he says again, and then he leans his head carefully against Spencer's shoulder. He's wrapped his fingers around Spencer's forearm, anchoring himself: now they tighten. It hurts, but Spencer doesn't shake him off. "I never get anything, Spence," Ryan says. "I never - and he won't stay."

"I don't think..." Spencer begins slowly. He's seen the way Jon watches Ryan, the softness in his eyes. "I think you're wrong, Ryan."

Ryan snorts. "What the fuck do _you_ know?" he demands, words with razor edges, but Spencer's used to this. He doesn't take the bait.

"I think he'd wait a long fucking time for you, Ry," he says.

Ryan laughs, sharp and broken. "So? He'll _wait_."

"Ryan -"

"I don't believe it, I don't," says Ryan. "Maybe I'll never believe it. Everyone keeps telling me everything's changed but I _don't_ , I haven't. Why should he wait? He shouldn't have to wait. No one should need to be waiting for me, I ought to be _fine_." He sets his jaw. "I'm not like you. I'm freeborn."

That hurts too, but Spencer bites his tongue and takes it. Ryan doesn't mean anything by it. Ryan's just upset.

"And you," says Ryan. "You're waiting too. Spencer, you -" He scrambles awkwardly sideways, so he can kneel up and see Spencer's face. "I know, I know, but you shouldn't have to, you -" He leans in and kisses Spencer, but it's awkward and off-center, sliding away from his mouth and ending up with his lips pressed against the line of Spencer's jaw. Ryan pulls back, frustrated. "You shouldn't have to," he repeats. "I shouldn't _be_ like this."

"Listen," says Spencer. "Listen, okay, Ryan." He twists his head aside, avoiding another kiss, and Ryan's mouth ends up against the tendon in his neck, open and wet. Spencer's breath hitches. "Stop," he says desperately. "I'll wait, okay, I've _been_ waiting since the apple orchard, I'm okay -"

"I _want_ to," says Ryan, reaching for him again.

"You fucking liar," says Spencer.

The room goes silent. It's dark and Ryan's eyes are darker, fixed on him.

"I want you to want to, okay?" Spencer says to them, stumbling over the words. "I want _you_. I want - don't do that to me, Ryan. Don't make me something else you have to get through. Just - _don't._ "

Ryan watches him for a moment longer. Spencer can't, he can't breathe.

Then Ryan nods, slowly, and looks down. "Sorry," he says.

Spencer pulls him back into a hug, needs something to touch right now. "It's okay," he says. His heart is still racing. "It's okay."

They both fall silent. The floor where they're sitting is cold and hard and is probably going to give them splinters. Spencer looks up at the bed. It's pretty typical of the beds in this house, which is to say that its metal headboard is embossed with a design of garlands, songbirds, and skulls.

Barely half an hour ago Jon and Ryan were - something. There.

Ryan laughs quietly, unamused, and shakes his head. His hair brushes Spencer's cheek. "It was nothing," he says. He knows what Spencer's thinking. "He hardly touched me. He had no reason to think I'd - but. I don't know. I wasn't expecting it." He pauses. "He was a little drunk, wasn't he?"

"I think so," Spencer says.

Ryan says, "It was nothing." Again, like he's trying to convince himself. Then, smaller, "He won't stay."

And for a moment, one fleeting moment, Spencer sees how it would go. He thinks of looking up and seeing Jon and Brendon in the doorway, Brendon's hand on Jon's arm sure and strong, and he knows. He could leave. He could take Ryan and leave, they could go, they could find somewhere safe, and just - leave Brendon here, leave Brendon with Jon, and eventually, eventually, Spencer just _knows_ it would happen. He tries to ignore the way his chest goes tight at the thought, because it would be fair, it would. He'd have Ryan, and it wouldn't be right to have them both, to leave Jon with a houseful of gargoyles and children that he doesn't know what to do with. Spencer could take Ryan, and make him safe, and watch him remember how to smile again.

Except that Ryan already smiles, here. Ryan smiles for him and Ryan smiles for _Jon._

Spencer doesn't want to leave Brendon anyway. He isn't sure he could.

"He'll stay," he says. "He'll stay. He'll wait for you, Ryan. I'll prove it to you."

Ryan huffs out a breath. "How?"

"You need to trust me," Spencer says. "You'll see. I promise, you'll see."

Ryan doesn't say anything, but he shuffles sideways a little bit, pressing closer to Spencer.

A few minutes later he shifts and says, "It's cold."

"Bed, then," Spencer says. He lets go of Ryan and stands up. His legs are stiff from not moving for so long. He reaches down to give Ryan a hand up.

Ryan stands and immediately steps closer, into Spencer's space, then realizes a second later what he's doing and moves away again. "It's okay if you want to go," he says, hugging his arms around himself and looking at the bed as though it's an unfamiliar country. "Brendon is probably wondering where you are."

Suddenly Spencer feels so fucking tired, his limbs too heavy and his skin stretched too tight, and he doesn't even want to make the effort to shake his head. He says, "Shut up, Ryan," and sits down on the edge of the bed. The blankets are already messed up. Ryan must have been sleeping or lying down when Jon came in. Spencer doesn't wait for Ryan to say anything. He lies down and rolls over, pulls the sheet up to his chin and closes his eyes. He concentrates on breathing evenly, in and out, and he doesn't count how long it takes for Ryan to rustle around the room a little, then lift the covers and lie down behind him.

Ryan presses himself closer to Spencer. He's wearing a shirt now, and he presses his forehead between Spencer's shoulders and slips one arm around Spencer's waist. "Good night, Spencer," he says, his voice clear and oddly formal, almost like he used to speak when they were - _before_ , at the farm, when there were others around and Ryan was playing the part of the proper landowner's son. Spencer stops breathing for a moment, forces himself to start again. It doesn't mean anything. Ryan's hand is curling warmly on his side, his fingers moving as though he's waiting for something. Spencer reaches up to twine his fingers with Ryan's, and breathes out in quiet relief when Ryan squeezes his hand, hard, and doesn't let go.

He wakes in the morning to the sound of somebody opening the door, but by the time his eyes are open and he's aware enough to look, whoever it was is gone. It's still early, the sun weak and pale through the window. He's lying on his back, and Ryan is half sprawled over him, one arm and one leg hooked over Spencer and his head tucked against Spencer's shoulder.

Spencer waits a long time before moving. It's so comfortable, so _perfect_ , to have Ryan sleeping peacefully beside him, and Spencer doesn't want to wake him. When he finally slips out of Ryan's grasp and tucks the blankets around him again, Ryan looks pale and still exhausted, even in sleep, but there are no lines of worry and fear marking his face. Spencer brushes his hair back from his forehead and kisses him softly.

He dresses and goes downstairs, remembers halfway down that he forgot his shoes and decides not to go back for them. There are a lot of people awake already. He can hear Brendon and Butcher in the dining room with some of the kids, and the tell-tale clank of pots and pans interspersed with curses from the kitchen that means the Way brothers are taking their turn cooking breakfast. Spencer almost goes to help them, but he stops himself. He knows Gerard will just give him that _look_ and launch into a lecture about how it's not just okay, it's _good_ and _right_ that the noble-born men in the house are working while the former slaves do nothing, it's just _breakfast_ but it's _fair_ , and Mikey will stand by the stove rolling his eyes while Spencer tries to get a word in long enough to explain that yes, yes, of course it's _fair_ , he just wants to make sure it's also _edible_. It's usually kind of funny - he doesn't think Gerard means to lecture at all, he just speaks very earnestly and at great length - but this morning Spencer really would rather go sit in the dining room while his lordship does the cooking.

Brendon smiles when he comes in, bright and cheerful and holding nothing back, and Spencer feels a bit of the heavy tiredness hanging over him slip away. He pulls a chair up beside Brendon and bumps their knees softly, but he doesn't say anything. Butcher is speaking to a group of three boys. They're some of the youngest in the group, maybe about eleven years old, and Spencer can't remember their names but he's seen them often enough to know they always stick together.

"Will they make us fight?" one of the boys asks, his voice small and his eyes wide with worry.

"No," says Brendon, leaning forward and looking the kid right in the eyes. He speaks seriously and carefully, not at all like he's talking to a child. "We would never send you to people who would do that. _Never._ "

Butcher nods in agreement. "Absolutely not. This couple, they've never owned slaves. Their children are grown-up, but they like having kids around."

The kids exchange skeptical glances. "They won't like us," one of them says.

Brendon reaches out to poke the boy's shoulder. "Hey. You don't know that. You haven't even met them yet."

"We'll get in trouble," the third boy says defiantly. The others nod in agreement, although they don't look so proud.

"Yeah," Brendon agrees. "Probably. But Butcher just said this couple has already raised _six_ sons. I don't think you're going to scare them off that easily."

"What if they're mean to us?"

Brendon says, "Then you can come back. We'll check on you. We're not just going to drop you off and forgot about you, I promise." Butcher looks a little bit surprised by this promise, but he doesn't interrupt. "Somebody will come by to make sure you're okay, and if there's anything wrong - if these people are mean to you in any way - you only have to say so and we'll take you away."

The boys look at each other again, obviously trying to have some kind of silent conversation without the adults noticing.

Brendon sits back in his chair. "You can talk about it," he says. "Think about it. It's up to you."

"I'm not leaving for a couple of days," Butcher says. "I just need to know by then."

The boys nod and hurry away, whispering furiously to each other.

"It might take a while to work this out, letting them decide for themselves," Butcher says.

Brendon looks uncertain for a second, his shoulders curling in and his eyes darting around like he's not sure he's allowed to answer, but he brings his chin up. "I don't care," he says. "It's the right thing, it is. I don't care if it's more trouble for us in the long run. They have to have the right to say no." He sounds confident and certain and Spencer is so fucking proud of him. He kind of wants to haul Brendon into his lap and kiss him right there.

Instead he asks, "How do you usually handle kids?"

Butcher shrugs. "About the same, really, we just don't normally have so many of them in one place, and definitely not in a safehouse that's barely gotten itself running yet. There've been a lot of frantic messages going around ever since we got Jon's letter. This isn't exactly what anybody had planned." He shrugs again and looks a bit lost in thought, maybe a little sad, then glances down the table at the kids gathered in noisy groups. He adds, "I don't think we've ever promised to come back and check on them before."

"Is that -" Brendon bites his lip uncertainly. "Should I not have said that? I just don't think - they're scared, they're really scared, and they barely trust us now and we're sending them away again, and -"

"Hey," Butcher says. "It's okay. I think it's a good idea, actually. It's never been a problem - most of the people we find, they're friends of friends anyway, people we can keep an eye on easily enough. But it's a good idea."

Brendon grins and bounces in his chair a little. "I was thinking about the older kids - you said they're harder to place with families, a lot of the time? Well, I was thinking about how none of them have any skills except fighting but they're still _interested_ in things, and maybe if there are no families but there are craftsmen looking for apprentices, it wouldn't be a family but it could still be a good place..." Brendon still looks tired - none of them slept well last night - but his smile is bright and his excitement is contagious, and Butcher is nodding along thoughtfully, listening to every one of his suggestions. Spencer thinks it would be pretty amazing, really, to get to see this every morning, every time there was a problem to be solved.

He doesn't realize he's staring until Brendon stops talking and makes a confused face. "Spence?"

"Do you know where Jon is?" That isn't what Spencer meant to say, but when the question is out he realizes it is what he wants to know.

Brendon tilts his head to one side, but he doesn't ask why. He says, "Outside, I think. He's looking kind of rough this morning."

Spencer nods and stands up. "Okay." He takes two steps away, then turns around and comes back, leans down and kisses Brendon swiftly on the mouth. "Thanks," he says. He hears Brendon stammering something and Butcher laughing when he leaves the dining room.

He finds Jon outside by the woodpile, chopping wood even though the kids and all their restless energy have done impressive damage to the Ways' woodlands already. Jon scowls at each log, and each time the axe connects he winces like he can feel it in every bone. Spencer watches him for a little bit, wary of interrupting, and after a few minutes Jon notices him standing there. He leans on the axe and waits for Spencer to say something, and Brendon was right; Jon is not looking very well this morning.

Spencer takes a deep breath. "Are you going to hurt him?"

Jon's eyes go wide. "Who - _no_ , god, Spencer, _no_. I would never -"

"Are you going to leave if he doesn't change, if you can never do more than sleep next to him?"

" _No_ ," Jon bites out angrily. "I'm not -"

"Are you going to - to throw him out like so much fucking garbage if you get tired of him?"

Jon's shaking his head now, his expression furious and horrified. "What the fuck are you - Spencer, what the hell?"

"Are you going to hurt him if he doesn't do what you want, exactly like you want it?"

"Is that what you think?" Jon demands, his voice rising to a shout. "That I could -"

Spencer cuts him off again. "What about -" He swallows nervously and crosses his arms over chest. "What about me? Are you going to hurt _me_ if he doesn't?"

"Spencer," Jon says desperately. "I'm not - I _can't_ , I thought you knew. I _won't_ and I don't know -"

"I know," Spencer says. His nervousness vanishes, and he feels suddenly, strangely calm. "I know you won't."

"I don't -" Jon shakes his head again, as though he's trying to clear it. "I don't understand."

"I know you won't hurt Ryan. Or any of us," he adds after a moment. "You thought I was a soldier when you first found me, somebody who would arrest you and have you hanged, but even then you didn't - and this is different, this is _Ryan_ , and you're kind of -" Spencer laughs a little, can't stop himself even though Jon only looks more confused. "It's kind of obvious you're in love with him and have been since..." He waves his hand vaguely. "Whenever."

Jon looks down at the ground and taps the head of the axe into the dirt. When he looks up again, he's still confused, but he doesn't look angry anymore. "Yeah," he says, shrugging with one shoulder. "It's kind of obvious. And I - I know you're worried, Spence, you're probably always going to be, you have that right, but I would _never_ hurt him or, or send him away or make him leave, not if that's not what he -"

"I know," Spencer says again. "But it's - _I_ know that, but Ryan doesn't. He doesn't - he tries so hard not to see himself like they saw him, but..."

Jon looks at him steadily for a long moment, but he doesn't say anything.

"Ryan thinks you'll get tired of waiting," Spencer says. It should feel like betrayal, like loss, giving this much of Ryan to somebody else, but Jon is looking at him with eyes that are so fucking hopeful. Spencer can't feel regret. It would be a waste for Ryan to never get a chance to see that look when it's so obviously meant for him. "He thinks you're going to want more than he can give, and you'll leave and he won't be able to blame you for it."

"It's not like that," Jon says softly.

Spencer smiles and looks up as a bird flies overhead, darting between the branches of the trees. "Yeah," he says. "I know."

Jon laughs, like the sound is startled out of him. "You know and I know, but we're not the ones who need convincing, are we?"

"You have to tell him."

Jon looks down and kicks at the ground. "I don't know how."

"You could start by using words." Spencer turns and starts to walk away. "But not right now. I think he's still asleep and he -"

"Probably needs the sleep, yeah," Jon says. "Spencer."

There's something in his voice that makes Spencer stop and look back.

"Why are you -" Jon breaks off. "No, never mind. Just, thanks. That's all."

"You told me to think about what I want," Spencer says.

"This is what you want?" Jon sounds a little skeptical, but it's not like Spencer can hold that against him.

"It's part of it," he says.

He walks back to the house, listening to the even thud of Jon's axe in the logs.

Just as he gets to the door a whole gang of kids erupts out of it in a whirl of lanky limbs and incomprehensible yelling. Spencer spots a couple of the Alexes in the middle of the crowd and rolls his eyes, but he doesn't try to wade through them, just braces himself and lets them race past. One of them knocks into him, hard, and falls over - it's Cash - and Spencer reaches out to pull him to his feet, but Cash just giggles and jumps up on his own, running off after the others and yelling, "Hey! Hey!"

Spencer shakes his head. He's a little surprised to find that he's smiling. When those kids got here a few weeks ago they were sullen and vicious, lashing out every few seconds. They didn't laugh. They didn't play. Things have changed.

"Kids are resilient," says Butcher.

Spencer looks up, surprised. "Butcher! Sorry, didn't see you."

"I know," Butcher says, and grins at him. He's sitting on the bottom step of the grand staircase. "Surprised anyone ever manages to spot anyone in here, with all that racket going on. We've shut down child-sellers a couple of times, but both of those were trading younger kids. Never had a houseful of teenagers to deal with before."

"It's been a little crazy," Spencer says. He shakes his head. "More than a little."

"I'll bet. Just the three of you and Jonny and those two crazies, and what happened to Tom -" A shadow passes over Butcher's face. "God."

"The Ways do their best," says Spencer. He's not quite sure why, but it seems important to say that. "And Jon's -"

"Jonny's a mess," says Butcher. "Not surprising, really."

Spencer falls silent. Butcher sounds sure, and subdued, and tired. Butcher probably knows Jon better than he does, which is a strange thought. Butcher's known him longer, and he knew Tom, too. Jon had a whole life, with friends and allies and plans and ideals, to live with and live by, before Spencer knew him - before any of them knew him. Jon's even been in love before. Spencer thinks suddenly of the story Jon told them, him and Ryan, the night Tom died. He can't remember the girl's name, but he remembers how Jon's voice shook.

"It hasn't been like I thought it would be," he says.

"I guess not," says Butcher. "It's - oh, hey, come here, Smith."

Spencer doesn't know what prompted that, what flicker of his expression gave him away, but he goes. He sits down next to Butcher on the stairs, and Butcher nudges his arm with his elbow. It's oddly companionable. Butcher's a good friend, Spencer thinks.

"It's how it goes," Butcher says. "Shit happens. It never really stops. No matter where you are." He sighs. " _Fuck_ , but Tommy."

"This was meant to be safe," says Spencer. He's said the words so often now they're starting to feel strange in his mouth, meaningless.

Butcher gives him a slow careful look, and then says, "No, it's meant to be a safehouse."

  
"What?" Spencer says.

"Spencer," says Butcher, "it's -" He runs a hand through his hair. "It's a safehouse. It's not safe by itself. What we do is, we _make_ it safe. For -" He tilts his head at the door where the kids vanished. "For them. But then they leave again. No one can stay forever, even the Cobra can't do that. There's going to be others. And we'll keep making it safe, for long enough. That's what we do."

Spencer thinks about it, and says slowly, "Long enough for what?"

Butcher nudges him with his elbow again. "Learning. Or remembering, I guess, for some. The older they are, the longer it takes." He shrugs, but he's smiling. "Kids are resilient. You've been pretty fucking resilient, haven't you?"

"I'm not a kid," Spencer says.

"Sure you're not."

"You're not that much older than me."

"Didn't say I was. God knows you've done more than I have." Butcher puts a hand on his shoulder. "You're something like a hero, you know. Matt and Disashi, they got back from a job down south, we told them all about you. Running away from the army and crossing the mountains. They didn't believe us."

"I didn't," says Spencer, embarrassed, "I didn't do anything, really. Brendon -"

"Sure, Brendon," agrees Butcher. "Brendon too. But we didn't get to know him as well."

Spencer ducks his head. "He's brave," he says.

"I know," says Butcher, and pats Spencer's shoulder before he lets him go. "You all are. And you know, I guess what I'm saying, _kid_ -" he grins, "- is that free men can't expect to be safe. Not all the time."

"I - but - It's not fair," Spencer says.

"No," says Butcher, and when Spencer glances at him he's staring at the arched, carved ceiling, his expression distant. Spencer knows he's thinking about Tom. "Sometimes," and Butcher shrugs sadly, "sometimes it's worth it, though."

There are footsteps on the stairs. Spencer twists around and then scrambles to his feet: it's Brendon. He stares at the two of them and looks a tiny bit unhappy for a moment, but quickly smooths it away. "Spence," he says. "It's - um - I was looking for you. Um, Ryan. He won't - I mean, I looked, he's still in bed. Should I take him some food?"

It's nearly noon. "Ask Jon to do it," Spencer says.

Brendon's eyes widen a little. "You're sure?"

"Yeah," says Spencer. "They need to talk anyway."

Brendon hesitates for a moment before he walks down the stairs, past Spencer and Butcher, and Spencer doesn't like that, so he says, "Hey, Bden, hey," and stops him with a hand on his arm.

"What?" says Brendon, smiling up at him like he knows the answer.

Spencer kisses him, just quickly. "Nothing," he says. "Go tell Jon to move his ass." He doesn't say, _Last night I thought about leaving you, but I didn't want to_ , because Brendon might not hear the second part.

Brendon bites his lip but can't stop the grin. "Going," he says. Spencer watches him leave, can't keep his eyes away from the way his hips move, the curve of his spine, the slightly awkward way he still holds his left arm.

Butcher chuckles when he's gone. "That's new, huh?" he says.

"You can tell," Spencer says, amused, not quite a question.

Butcher bobs his head. "Even if I didn't know for _sure_ it wasn't happening when I saw you last - you're like fucking newlyweds, Smith. It's pretty sweet."

Spencer huffs out a laugh, looking down and rubbing the back of his neck. "It's complicated," he says.

Butcher raises his eyebrows.

"There's Ryan," says Spencer. "And Jon. And I -" And he's never going to be able to explain this thing that's happening to him in a thousand years, actually, so he's just going to shut up.

"Sounds confusing," says Butcher. "I'd say let's get a beer and you can tell me all about it - in detail -" He winks. "But apparently we don't drink in this house."

"Yeah," says Spencer. "I think that's - not a good idea."

Butcher nods. "Well. You still got that rifle I gave you?"

"Haven't had much chance to practice lately," Spencer says.

"I bet. But we should go hunting later. I bet there's something worth eating in those woods, and the kids would probably be glad of the change."

"Yeah, okay," says Spencer. "That'd be -" He never hurt anyone with the rifle. It was Toro's pistol that he used to kill a man. And the man was only a fucking slaver anyway. "That'd be good."

Butcher shoves his hands in his pockets and stands up. "Good."

[Chapter Seventeen](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/5083.html)


	18. But Not The Song (17/17)

_  
**But Not The Song (17/17)**   
_   
[Story Index and Warnings](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/446.html)

[Chapter Sixteen](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/4745.html)

  
**  
_xxxvi._   
**

It's uncomfortably warm and Ryan feels restless, hungry and a little bored, but he doesn't kick the blankets down or get out of bed.

It's a test, he thinks, that's what it is. He remembers clearly the last time he lay in bed for so long undisturbed. He was about twelve years old and he was sick with enough of a fever that even his father had to admit he wasn't just being lazy. Ryan spent two days in bed with nothing but unsettling fever-dreams to keep him occupied. Spencer wasn't allowed in the house.

Ryan frowns and rolls onto his side. There are so many things he hasn't thought about in years, so many things he thought he would never want to remember. He can't remember if Spencer ever saw the inside of the house Ryan spent his entire childhood wanting to leave.

The sun rose hours ago and Ryan can hear people awake all through the house, boys shouting outside and footsteps pounding on the stairs. He recognizes the voices: Brendon telling some boys to stop fighting, Frank telling them to stop fighting or he'll kick their fucking asses, the boys demanding to know why the fuck they have to, around and around again in the same endless arguments. It's comforting, almost, in how annoying it is, even muffled and distant across the house and through the closed door.

There are footsteps in the hallway outside the room and Ryan closes his eyes and lies still. The door opens, and he hears Brendon's quick, "Oh, sorry, you're still -" before it closes again. There's a brief silence, like Brendon is standing just outside the door, then his footsteps retreat.

Ryan opens his eyes and looks at the green trees through the window. He stops listening to the noise outside the room, so he's not paying attention when somebody else approaches and opens the door. He closes his eyes quickly as whoever it is crosses the room, hesitates a moment, and sits on the other side of the bed. Ryan doesn't move, he just breathes evenly and waits.

"Believe it or not," says Jon, "I've gotten pretty good at being able to tell when you're really asleep and when you're pretending."

Ryan doesn't let himself react. He's being a coward, he knows this, but he's not ready to hear what Jon has to say.

"I brought you some food. Brendon thought you might be hungry."

Jon is quiet for a little bit, then he sighs and there's a rustling sound as he shifts. Ryan tenses but Jon doesn't touch him.

"I'm going to say something," Jon says. "You don't have to answer. You don't even have to listen. I'm just going to -" He lets out a sound that's almost a laugh. "Spencer says I need to try this, and I think he's - yeah, he's right."

Ryan's heart races a little, and he clenches his hand around the edge of the blanket in a tight fist. Spencer talked to Jon - Spencer talked to Jon about _him_. Spencer told Jon to come up here, and Ryan doesn't know what that means.

"The thing is," Jon goes on, "I've been doing this for a few years now. Working with the Cobra, I mean. We've rescued a lot of people, and I know it's different for everybody. I know it's never the same, but I - Ryan, I know what happened to you. I know what they did to you."

Ryan makes a tiny, involuntary noise and presses his fist to his mouth. He doesn't open his eyes and he can't move. He's afraid if Jon touches him he'll fly into a million pieces.

"And I understand that you never want to - why you never talk about it. With me," he adds after a moment. Jon's voice is so quiet Ryan has to strain to hear, and he sounds so fucking tired, like every word is an effort. "And I think - I don't know. I don't know, you should tell me if I'm wrong, but I think that you're... maybe you're thinking that you can't hide from Spencer because he was there - he's _been_ there all along, he's part of you and everything that - and maybe you can't hide from Brendon because he's - because he, well. Because. But me."

When Jon doesn't go on, Ryan finally moves. He rolls onto his back, bumping into Jon's leg through the covers, and sits up quickly, drawing his legs up to his chest. Jon is sitting at the edge of the bed with his elbows resting on his knees. He looks at Ryan and there are lines of worry on his face, a weary slump to his shoulders. Somebody, Ryan thinks, strangely detached, somebody ought to touch him, soothe that weariness away.

He waits for Jon to speak again, but Jon opens his mouth, closes it again, shakes his head and remains silent.

"I was -" Ryan stops and licks his lips, rubs his hands over his bare arms in spite of the warmth of the room. It shouldn't be this hard, they're just _words_. But he can't figure out which ones are right. "When I met you. I was already free."

He hadn't believed it at the time, but he knows there was some part of him that wanted to - no, _longed_ to believe, so badly, however foolish it was to hope. Wentz had given him a horse and the shirt off his back and sent him away, with no chains to bind him except his word and the wild, outrageous hope that these strangers were speaking the truth. He could have taken that horse and gone anywhere, become anyone. But he didn't. He kept his word, he followed Tom's directions and carried Lord Wentz's message, he went into the woods and he washed the paint from his face in a cold pond and he met Jon.

"I didn't - _don't_ want to be that -" _frightened child, helpless slave, filthy whore_ "- anymore."

"You aren't," says Jon. He's looking at Ryan too closely, too intently, but Ryan can't look away. "You won't ever be again. But Ryan -" Ryan stops breathing, just for a beat, as Jon turns to face him fully. "You don't have to - god, Ryan, you don't have to hide or - and I get that it might be easier, okay? I don't ask you about it because I thought that's what you needed. Somebody who won't ask, who won't make you remember."

 _So did I_ , Ryan thinks, but his tongue won't cooperate, so he only nods.

"I'm not going to - I don't know the details," Jon says, "but I _know_. You don't have to act like everything's okay, like you can just, just move on and forget."

He seems to be waiting for Ryan to answer, so Ryan says the only thing that he can think that matters. "I don't know if I'll ever..."

Jon tilts his head to one side. "Ever what?"

Ryan looks away. "Be better."

"Oh, Ryan." Jon sighs, and he moves like he's going to come closer, then thinks better of it. "They took away five years of your life," he says, "and you've had barely two months to start getting it back. And it doesn't matter if it takes two months or two years or twenty years. It doesn't matter. You have all the time in the world now."

"But you - don't you want." Ryan can't finish the question, although the words are running in circles in his mind: don't you want somebody who isn't broken and hollow inside, don't you want somebody who has something to give, don't you _want_. He inhales slowly and lifts his head. "You might be waiting forever," he says, careful not to let his voice shake. "You don't want that."

Jon smiles a little. "I don't think you know what I want."

There's nothing accusing in Jon's voice, but Ryan feels a twist of guilt and embarrassment.

"I guess I thought - not demanding anything from you, that would make it easier for you."

Ryan nods again, then forces himself to say it out loud, "It does." He can give Jon that much, at least, a pale reassurance even if he can't give anything else.

"But there was kind of a big flaw in that plan," says Jon.

"Flaw?" Ryan asks.

"I guess I knew you would draw your own conclusions," Jon says. He's still smiling. It's small but it crinkles the corners of his eyes and it's impossible for Ryan to look away. "I just didn't realize you would get it so very wrong."

Ryan's mouth drops open and his face grows hot. "I - what?"

"Ryan," Jon says, and there's so much warmth and fondness in his voice, it's almost too much to bear. "What do you think I'm doing here? With you? Do you think I asked you to come here with me because I'm waiting for you to become somebody else? That I sleep next to you on the off-chance that you'll wake up one day a completely different person?"

Ryan starts to deny it. "I don't -" Except. Except maybe he does, maybe that's what he's been telling himself because the alternative doesn't make any sense. Jon is - he's hurting now, he's grieving, but he's free and he's whole and he deserves someone who's both of those things too. Ryan shakes his head, a thousand denials running through his mind, but the only thing he can say is, "Why?"

Jon says, "Because I'm in love with you. I thought you knew." Jon ducks his head and rubs the back of his neck. "I thought it was... I'm pretty damn sure everybody else knows. And if not - well, I'm not sure I want to know what other reason all those kids who follow Brendon around have for singing the one about the fox and the swan every time I walk by." He frowns thoughtfully. "I think you're supposed to be the swan."

Ryan stares at him. "But - but that's not -"

"Not what?" Jon asks quietly. "Not a good reason? Not possible?"

Ryan shakes his head. He's not sure if it's because Jon's guessed right or wrong. He can hardly make himself think around the sudden roaring in his ears. "And you want -" He stops, considers. He got it wrong before, that's what Jon is telling him. "I don't know what you want." _From me_ , but those words stick in his throat.

"I want you to do what makes you feel safe and happy," Jon says. "That's all." He's smiling as he says it but he looks sad, and Ryan feels suddenly, irrationally angry.

"No," he says. The word is too loud, sharp in all corners of the room.

"Ryan, I just -"

" _No_ ," Ryan says again. "You can't - don't do that. You can't, you can't _say_ something like that then act like it doesn't matter, like _you_ don't matter. That's not fair. You can't - you can't."

Jon looks startled by his outburst. "I don't - that's not what I'm trying to do, I'm just - I know you and Spence have talked about leaving, and I don't want -"

Ryan interrupts, "Do you want me -" Jon falls silent, waiting. Ryan hugs his legs against his chest and stamps down on the wave of panic he feels. Jon might say no, he _should_ say no and it might be better not to ask at all, but Ryan has to. And it's not _me_ , it's _us_. Jon knows that already but Ryan has to say it. "Do you want us to stay?"

"If you -"

"You, Jon." Just like that, as quickly as it arose, the fear is gone. Ryan unwinds his arms and crosses his legs, leans forward and reaches out. It's tentative but his hand is steady as it touches the blanket just shy of where Jon is sitting. "Do you want us to stay?"

Jon looks away, stares at nothing across the room for a moment. "I do mean that," he says, not looking at Ryan. "That you should do... Even if." His voice trails off, and it's a moment before he goes on. "I really do want you to do what will make you happy. But it would be - I would, yeah. I would like it if you wanted to stay here. Not just - I mean, you especially, but I know you and Spencer will be together, and I don't think we'll be prying Spencer and Brendon apart anytime soon, and... yeah. I would like that."

Ryan slides across the bed, rucking the covers up behind him, and sits beside Jon with his feet on the floor. "Like it?"

Jon smiles sheepishly. "Yeah. A lot."

"Oh," says Ryan. "Why didn't you say so?"

Jon gives him a look that's half amusement and half disbelief. Ryan figures he probably deserves that.

He looks down at his feet, wriggles his toes against the hard wooden floor, and folds his hands in his lap. Then he shakes his head, unfolds them, uses his left hand to rub at his eyes.

"You're twitching," Jon says.

"I – sorry," says Ryan.

"It's okay."

"No, I mean, sorry," Ryan says. "I shouldn't have – I shouldn't have pushed you off the bed. I shouldn't have lost it like that."

"It's okay," Jon says again.

Ryan risks a sideways glance at him. The bed's ancient mattress is dipping a little with both of them sitting so close together, and Jon's nearer than he expected. His head is bowed, and the set of his shoulders under his shirt is tense and miserable. But when he looks up, feeling Ryan's eyes on him, the look in his eyes is so fucking warm and hopeful. It's the way it always is, when he looks at Ryan.

Ryan drops his gaze again, but he reaches out his hand to place it on top of Jon's where it's resting awkwardly on the bedspread. Jon's skin is warm and a little rough. After a moment he turns his hand over, and they stay like that for a minute, palm to palm, not looking at each other, before Ryan thinks _fuck it_ and tangles their fingers together, squeezing. When he looks over at Jon again Jon's already looking at him, and they stare at each other for a minute. Ryan thinks, _I'm in love with you_ , hears it in Jon's voice, thinks about saying it.

And suddenly he's thinking about saying other things, things he's never said to anyone, things even Spencer has only seen the jagged edges of. _I know what they did to you._ Dark sex-smelling rooms and the dull repetitive creak of bedsprings in his ears. Leather cuffs on his ankles, on his wrists, laced tight enough that they left marks; being given pretty things to wear and turning them into armor, letting them make him into someone else. A woman with sad eyes who bought them once, who wrapped strands of Ryan's hair around her fingers and kissed him like she was drowning, who liked to do the whippings herself even though her men-at-arms were better at it. Three long months he spent in one room, two or three years ago, a room with a big soft bed and a thick white carpet, fancy wallpaper and high ceilings, streaming light from the windows and a door that locked from the outside. The man who owned it and owned him had puffy eyes and knobby fingers and let him see Spencer if he got down on his knees and begged.

He doesn't say any of them. He thinks the words would burn his tongue, maybe, and besides, there's time now. There's time and more time to say them if he wants to, _not_ to say them if he _doesn't_ want to, and none of it will ever happen again. It's never going to happen again. It's _never going to happen again_ , and Spencer was here beside him last night, and Jon's beside him now, and all of it, all of it can wait. Forever, maybe.

He grips Jon's hand a little tighter and says, "It's not okay. I – listen, I know. I knew, I know, I know you never would." He watches Jon through his eyelashes. "I _know_ that."

"Ryan," Jon breathes.

"You might be waiting – you might be, you'll _probably_ be waiting – a long time," Ryan says.

"Then I'll wait," says Jon. "Fucking hell, Ryan, I'll –" His hand in Ryan's twitches, as if he's resisting the urge to grip tight tight tight. "I – for _you_." He swallows, and he sounds so certain.

"Jon," Ryan says, and lets go of his hand before he kisses him.

It's tentative at first, awkward and feather-light, their lips barely touching. Jon's beard tickles Ryan's chin as they breathe against each other's mouths. Even sitting down like this Jon's a little shorter than Ryan, his face tilted up, and they're not touching anywhere but the careful brush of their lips.

And then – then it's Ryan who changes it, Ryan who presses closer, Ryan who puts his hands on either side of Jon's face and kisses harder and lets his tongue flick out. He licks his own lips and Jon's at the same time in something that's maybe a question, maybe a demand, and Jon's lips part and his eyes fall closed as he gasps. His hands are suddenly on Ryan's biceps, gripping hard and bunching up the sleeves of the shirt Ryan slept in, and Ryan feels strangely, quietly triumphant.

He pushes Jon away after a few moments, and Jon lets him go at once, doesn't try to fight. He's breathing hard and staring at Ryan's mouth. Ryan only realizes when he licks his lips and Jon flushes dark red and looks away fast before he turns back to him, makes eye contact.

"I'm not saying," he says, his voice a little scratchy, "that I won't get impatient. I – I'm – _god_ , Ryan –"

Ryan smiles. It's weird how easy it is. It's weird how right it is. "It's okay," he says.

Jon pulls a face. "It's –"

Ryan shakes his head. "It's – you love me. You never would. It's okay." He picks up Jon's hand again, because he missed it. "It's – _thank you._ "

Jon raises his eyebrows and bites his lip at the same time. Ryan stifles a laugh. Jon's very good at saying things without actually saying them. "Really," he says, and he jumps to his feet, tugging on Jon's hand. "Hey, come on."

"Ryan, what?" says Jon, standing up.

"Come _on_ ," Ryan repeats. "Let's go and –" He shrugs, smiles. "Anything." The tray of food Jon brought up is sitting on the bedside table. He grabs a hunk of cheese with his free hand and stuffs it into his mouth, and nearly spits it out again when the flavor's a lot stronger than he expected. Jon laughs at him and looks surprised at himself for doing it.

"Where are we going? You're not dressed," Jon says.

"I'm wearing clothes," says Ryan.

"You slept in those."

"I don't care." Ryan grins, feeling suddenly, wildly free. He doesn't _care_. No one else is going to. He doesn't have to worry about what people will see, here. He doesn't have to worry about what they'll think. He's barefoot and that's okay too, because he has shoes and he could wear them if he wanted. He doesn't want to, but he _could_. "Come on."

"I – Ryan," says Jon, laughing, as Ryan pulls him out of the room and through the house to the grand front hall, then out the door. " _Ryan_."

Ryan stops on the doorstep. The sun is high in the sky overhead, and only odd little puff of white cloud disturbs the blue, blue, blue above. The air is still and warm and full of the scent of cut grass. Ryan wonders idly who's been cutting it, and why.

In the caravans summers were always bad times. All times were bad times, of course, but summers on the road, the sticky heat of too many people too close together and the dust underfoot getting into everyone's eyes, the guards short-tempered and snappish, the markets thronged with people, and never, ever enough water – those times were very bad. This year Ryan had forgotten summer was even coming, and now it's here already, beaming down on them. For the first time in five years Ryan thinks he can enjoy it. He closes his eyes and steps forward, still tugging Jon with him, turns his face up into the light.

"Ryan?" says Jon.

Ryan turns and grins at him, and then that doesn't really express the feeling bubbling up in his chest so he flings his arms round Jon's neck and hugs him instead.

"Hey, hey," Jon says, laughing a little and pulling him in, "you're –"

"Happy," Ryan finishes, and steps back, tossing his head to get his hair out of his face. The back of his neck feels too hot already in this weather. He should cut it, maybe. He knows – he's been told – that he's not as pretty with his hair cropped short, but – who cares how pretty he is or isn't, now? There are more important things. "Do you hear music?" he says.

Jon cocks his head, listening. "I hear Alexes," he says. "And guitar. I guess Mikey threw them out of the music room." He pauses, adds, "None of the kids is that good on the guitar yet. It's probably Brendon playing." His tone is cautious, as if he's expecting Ryan to throw a fit at the mention of Brendon's name. Ryan shakes his head. He fixed things already, and the sun is shining.

"Let's go find them," he says.

"I – _Ryan!_ " says Jon, as Ryan starts dragging him in the direction of the sound. "What are you –"

"Leading the way," Ryan says.

"I – " Jon laughs, "I've got things to do, Ryan, I ought to go talk to Butcher, we've got twenty-odd orphans to place, I need to write to Saporta, I have to talk to the Ways about having a better plan than that tunnel next time we get an unwelcome visitor –"

"Do it later," says Ryan. "Take the day off." He holds Jon's hand tighter. "Stay with me."

He hears Jon's breath hitch, and there's a second's pause before he mutters, "You can't take a day off from being a secret conspirator. It doesn't _work_ like that." He doesn't try to get away, though. He squeezes Ryan's hand back instead, and when Ryan looks at him he's smiling, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

They find Brendon and his entourage of Alexes at the bottom of the Ways' tangled excuse for a lawn. They've got one of the guitars from the music room and Brendon is showing something to one of the Alexes, the one with the thick curly hair – Ryan has a vague idea that some of them are called something other than Alex, but he has no idea which or what. Brendon's leaning around the kid, nudging his fingers into the right configuration, and his movements are sure and only a little stiff. His shoulder's getting better.

"He's healing fast," Jon murmurs. He must be thinking the same thing.

" – and up a perfect fifth," says Brendon as they get closer. "It's pretty straightforward, really. You guys are a lot more talented than most of the idiots I used to have to teach."

"Well, yeah," says an Alex, the noisy blond one. " _We're_ going to be musicians." He's watching every movement Brendon makes, kind of hungry, kind of worshipful. Ryan feels a little awkward looking at it on the kid's too-thin, too-young face.

Jon snorts softly. "I think Cash has a crush," he murmurs in Ryan's ear.

Brendon looks up at the sound. His eyes go wide when he sees them. "Jon. Ryan," he says.

"Hi," says Ryan. "Mind if we join you?" He fixed this. He smiles.

"I – " says Brendon. "Sure. _Sure_."

Ryan drops down into the soft grass, pulling Jon with him because he won't let go of Jon's hand. The Alexes eye him suspiciously. Ryan hasn't really spoken to any of them much. He's not like Brendon or Spencer or Jon. He's no actual _use_ when it comes to handling a houseful of loud, unpredictable teenagers.

"Don't mind us," Jon says. "We're just here to hear the band."

That apparently makes the Alexes decide they don't mind these new intruders, because they lose interest in Jon and Ryan and start chattering to each other loudly. Jon grins, stretching out his legs in the grass. Ryan leans against him and copies the motion, pressing their thighs together. The sun is warm on his face and all the colors he can see are bright and sharp and perfect, and it's too much. He has to close his eyes against it and just feel the warmth on his skin for a while. He tucks his head down against Jon's shoulder.

Brendon's giggling. "One guitar between six isn't much of a band," he says. "We'll do our best to keep you entertained, though, right guys?" The kids ignore him. A couple of them have started a playful squabble that seems to involve a lot of shoving at each other and snickering and not much else. Brendon tries to shush them a few times, strums a couple of chords on the guitar hopefully, and when that doesn't work he just rolls his eyes and starts singing. Jon shakes his head. "So that was your fault, was it?" he says. Brendon just smirks at him and sings louder.

Ryan doesn't know what he means. He doesn't recognize the tune, it's something quick and jaunty and repetitive, and the words are equally unfamiliar. The song seems to be a ballad of some sort, the kind with a million verses and a chorus meant for drunken parties in country inns. The verse Brendon's singing is about a fox doing... something, and it's all very silly. The kids pay attention again and join in raucously when Brendon gets to the chorus, laughing hard and shooting Jon and Ryan sly sideways glances. Ryan blinks.

He gets it when Brendon starts in on the second verse, and the fox meets a swan all alone on the pond with a _hey_ and a _ho_ and a _hey!_ Brendon makes ridiculous faces every time he shouts out the _hey!_ and it's pretty funny, really, even when Ryan realizes the kids are laughing because Brendon's totally making fun of him and Jon. Jon shakes his head solemnly, his eyebrows quirked, and something about his expression must push Brendon over the edge, because he's been giggling a little every time he takes a breath but suddenly he cracks and just flings his head back, shaking with laughter, his hands slipping on the guitar strings so the next chord he plays comes out jangled and discordant.

"Oops," Jon observes mildly, and that makes Brendon laugh so hard he has to give up playing the song altogether so he can wipe his eyes. "What did I say?" says Jon, mock-injured.

Ryan smiles to himself and nudges him with his elbow. Jon meets his eyes, and his expression goes soft for a moment. Ryan shifts so their legs are pressed even closer together, his ankle hooked over Jon's, before he looks away.

Brendon's pulled himself together, now, but even though the laughter's gone his smile lingers as he puts his fingers back to the strings, huge and bright and taking up most of his face. Brendon has a good smile, Ryan thinks – no, a fantastic smile, dazzling. He's sort of annoyed with himself that it surprises him. He should have been seeing it more often. He's going to see it more often, now. He's fixed things.

"All right, Jon Walker," Brendon says, "you owe me now, let's hear you sing it – come on, _and the swan said_ –"

Ryan never finds out what the swan said, because Jon opens his mouth and sings three words in a perfectly ridiculous falsetto and then gets shouted down by everyone at once, Brendon bursting into laughter once more and the kids hollering. Ryan chuckles low in his throat, and Jon sighs melodramatically. "No one appreciates me," he says.

"I appreciate you," says Ryan.

Jon smiles. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." He puts his hand on Jon's, rubs his thumb over the pulse in Jon's wrist. Jon shivers.

When he looks up again Brendon's not paying attention to them at all. He's talking to one of the boys instead. Ryan watches him for a moment, until Brendon must be conscious of someone looking, but he never looks up, keeps his gaze fixed on his own hands when the Alex turns away from him and back to his friends. Ryan mentally revises ‘not paying attention' to ‘pretending not to pay attention', shuffles closer to Jon, and wonders what he thinks about that.

Brendon really is pretty easy to read most of the time. He looks kind of awkward right now, the odd man out, not one of the Alexes and not part of Jon-and-Ryan either, left on his own between two sets of people. Ryan tries smiling at him, but Brendon's smile in return is nervous and shy.

Spencer should be here, Ryan thinks. Spencer would fix that. Actually, Spencer should be here anyway. "Where's Spencer?" he says. "I want Spencer."

Jon's chuckle registers as a warm rumble against Ryan's side. "Don't we all," he quips.

Ryan laughs, responding more to the tone than the words, and watches Brendon's eyes go wide and the flush rising on his cheeks without really thinking about it. Then the meaning sinks in and he goes still suddenly.

Jon freezes next to him. "Ryan?"

Ryan twists around to look him in the eye.

"What is it?" asks Jon.

"Did you mean that?" Ryan asks.

"Do I mean what?" Jon looks confused for a moment, but his expression changes and his mouth falls open. Jon lets go of Ryan's hand and pulls away slightly. "Ryan, it was just a joke, I wasn't -"

Ryan puts a finger to Jon's lips to quiet him. "It's okay," he says. Or it should be, he thinks, even though he can hear the question in his own voice. It would be fair. He moves his finger away from Jon's lips, and Jon takes a breath. But the kids are still there, only a few feet away, and Brendon is so close, so quiet, watching them. Ryan waits until Brendon meets his eyes and doesn't look away. "It's okay," Ryan says again. Brendon bites his lip and nods, just once.

Jon looks from him to Brendon and back. "But –"

"Don't worry about it," Ryan says firmly. It might be for both of them. Ryan kisses Jon, quick and dry, then he turns to look at Brendon. This time, Brendon jerks his gaze away, much too fast. "Where is Spencer?" Ryan asks. "Brendon?"

Brendon shrugs. "He and Butcher were talking about maybe going hunting, I think?"

Ryan crosses his arms. He's a lot more annoyed about that discovery than he should be, and he knows it's irrational, but that doesn't mean he can stop it. Beside him Jon snickers very, very softly, and Ryan gives him a glare. Jon shakes his head, _sorry_ , and then makes a small gesture in Brendon's direction.

Ryan's about to say _what?_ but he looks at Brendon and sees that Brendon's got his arms folded too, and is not-quite-glaring at his own feet.

Ryan unfolds his own arms quickly. Jon's smirking still, and – okay, maybe it's a little bit funny.

"What are you guys talking about?" says Cash loudly. "Are you talking about us?"

Ryan nearly jumps. He hadn't forgotten the boys were there, exactly, he'd just forgotten that they could be paying attention. "Um," he says.

"Yes," says Brendon at once. "We're talking about you, we always do. We were just saying how you need to take the guitar back to the music room and go help with dinner."

Cash looks stricken. " _Brendon_!" he complains. "That's not fair. You always boss us around. Why don't _you_ do it?"

Ryan feels Jon wince. He's expecting Brendon to be the way Gerard and Mikey are sometimes, the way Toro was. He's expecting him to look guilty. But Brendon just folds his arms. "I do my share of chores," he says. "You guys have skipped your turn for dinner three days in a row. And just so you know, I'm wise to your tricks. Maybe you can guilt-trip Gerard into letting you do whatever you want by playing the but-we-were-slaves card, but I was a slave for _way_ longer than any of you and I'm onto you."

One of the other Alexes giggles. Cash pouts and casts around for another excuse, and his eyes land on Ryan. "Why doesn't _he_ do it?" he says. "Ryan doesn't do chores."

"I could cook," Ryan offers quietly. "If you like. But then you'd have to eat it, and it'd be _foul_. Just ask Spencer."

Cash's skin acquires an embarrassed flush, and he says – to Ryan, not Brendon, this time, or at least to Ryan's feet, "Oh, you – I didn't mean – um – _shut up_ , Singer."

The Alex who was snickering shuts up.

"So yeah," says Brendon, and makes a shooing motion with one hand. "Go go go. Oh, and you need to talk to Mikey anyway, he's got something for you all because you're leaving soon."

"I don't want to leave," says Cash.

"We've definitely had this conversation already, Cash," says Brendon. "Come on, someone drag him if he won't move."

"Come on, Cash," says snickering-Alex, sounding fond and exasperated now. He grabs Cash's arm, and Cash shakes him off as he scrambles to his feet, and insists on taking the guitar from Brendon himself. The five of them head off up the lawn towards the house.

Ryan says, "What was that about?"

"Oh," says Brendon. "There's a rumor going around some of the boys that you don't talk, um. Very much. Or at all. They don't really - but it's not like you say much to them, you know?"

"I've talked to them," Ryan says. He feels vaguely annoyed and he isn't sure why. "I just don't - I wouldn't know what to say."

"I'm amazed you even know all this stuff, Bren," says Jon. "God knows they're hardly open about things with the rest of us."

Brendon says, "Yeah, well." But he's smiling. "I hope Mikey remembers they're coming. I told him I'd send them up later."

"What's he going to give them?" Jon asks.

"The guitar," says Brendon. He shrugs. "Well. Both the guitars, actually, and some percussion stuff and some sheet music. He asked what he could do, and I started talking about how much they like the music lessons, and he's going kind of overboard. I think he's a little bit like Gerard, in a quieter way. He said he can just get more stuff if he wants it."

"Those Ways," says Jon. Ryan shifts a little bit so he can see Jon's face better, because he can hear the smile and he wants to look at it too. Jon wraps his arm around Ryan's waist when he moves, and it's actually a little too warm in this hot sweaty weather, but Ryan doesn't try to get away. He doesn't mind.

"They're crazy," he agrees. Jon's smile is wide and sweet and he feels it echoed on his own face.

"So!" says Brendon after a moment. "I'm just – I'm going to go – I'm going –"

That makes Ryan sit up, pull away from Jon. "Could you get Spencer?" he says. "I need – I mean. I think we all need to talk."

"Look, Ryan, I –" Jon starts.

Ryan holds up a hand. "Stop _worrying_ , Jon."

Jon hesitates, and then says, "Fine. No worrying." He laughs a little bit. "Fuck, Ryan, you're... something."

"I am," says Ryan cheerfully.

"Okay, so I – I'll go, then," says Brendon. "I'll –"

Ryan fixes him with a sharp look. Brendon falls silent, staring at him. "Come back," Ryan says.

Brendon nods. Ryan looks away from him, then pushes at Jon until he's got him in the position he wants. Then he lies down in the grass next to him with his head pillowed on Jon's thigh and listens to Brendon's footsteps pause and then pad away through the soft grass. After a moment, Jon's hand comes down to rest in his hair, and when Ryan makes a hopeful noise, it starts stroking gently. Ryan _hmms_ happily and closes his eyes against the sun.

After a while Jon sighs and says, "He – Spencer – he told me you were crazy, one time."

That makes Ryan open his eyes again, rolling over so he can blink up at Jon's serious expression. "He did?"

Jon's mouth quirks at the corner. "I'm pretty sure this isn't what he meant, though."

"I –"

"I like it," blurts Jon. "I like it when you're crazy like this, Ryan, I – I like it when you're happy like this."

Ryan smiles at him. Jon looks a little silly from this angle. Well, he looks a little upside-down from this angle, which is the same thing. "Kiss me?" Ryan says.

"You're all the way down there," says Jon.

Ryan reaches up and twines his arms around Jon's neck, pulls Jon down a little as he sits up. "Kiss me?" he says, nearly nose to nose with Jon. His voice has gone soft and husky.

Jon gulps and says, "Sure," and turns his head to the side to get at Ryan's mouth.

When Brendon comes back with Spencer in tow, a while later – Ryan doesn't know how long, he's lost track – they aren't kissing anymore. They had, for a while, soft and sweet, and then it had turned hot and fierce, and Ryan had pushed Jon away long before he felt like he needed to, just to see. This time, just like every time, Jon let him go at once and didn't complain. Ryan had stretched out in the grass and said, "Thanks."

Jon had laughed softly and lain down beside him, saying, "Is it okay if I –" as he curled up next to Ryan, just barely touching him. Ryan had grabbed Jon's arm and pulled him closer, tugging until he had it wrapped around Ryan's waist and then dropping his own arm across Jon's shoulder.

Now they're lying in the warm grass with the sunlight pouring down on them, and Ryan's got his eyes closed but he can feel Jon's breath against the pulse in his neck. He is tired. He didn't sleep much last night. He doesn't think Jon did either.

"Are they asleep?" says Brendon. "I think they're asleep. Maybe we should –"

"They're not asleep," Spencer says. "Well, Ryan's not." A shadow falls across Ryan's face as Spencer stands over them. He makes a complaining noise, and Spencer nudges Ryan's ribs with his toes. "Come on, asshole," he says. "Don't fake. You wanted to talk to me?"

Ryan cracks his eyes open and makes a big show of yawning up at him as he sits up. Spencer's got his arms folded and an eyebrow raised, but Ryan's not fooled, he knows Spencer's amused, really. "Maybe I just wanted to see your pretty face," he says.

Spencer rolls his eyes. "Shut _up_. I could be out doing something useful right now," he says.

"Today is not useful day," says Ryan. "Look, even Jon's here. If I can drag Jon away from Cobra stuff for one day, I can totally have you too."

Spencer sighs dramatically and drops himself down in the grass next to him. He pokes Ryan's ribs with one of his feet again. "I was going to go hunting," he says.

"I hate hunting."

"I wasn't going to make you come."

"I'm sorry it's _such a hardship_ to be dragged away from shooting things so you can talk to your friends," Ryan retorts, grinning.

Spencer rolls his eyes. Then he leans back and tips his head back so he can see Brendon, who's standing a few feet away watching them all, shifting from foot to foot. "Come here," Spencer says.

"I –" says Brendon.

"Brendon, _come sit down,_ " says Spencer.

Brendon laughs and shoves his hands in his pockets and says, "Okay, okay." But he sounds happier. When he makes to sit down a little way away Spencer won't let him, snakes out a hand to pull him close.

Ryan nudges Jon, who's still lying next to him. "Are you awake?"

Jon keeps his eyes closed and shakes his head firmly.

"Come on," Ryan says. "There's stuff you need to hear."

"Jon?" says Spencer.

Ryan thinks he's the only one who notices the way Jon's face is a little red. It might just be the heat, so he doesn't say anything. All of that can wait, anyway. Jon opens his eyes and sits up, propping himself up on one arm, which is what matters. "Are you –" he says.

"Spencer," says Ryan over him, "do you still want to leave?"

Everything goes still – still but not quiet. Ryan can hear birdsong, and the buzzing of insects, and Jon's soft breaths that he _knows_ Jon is working to keep even. He wants to touch him, tell him it'll be okay, but he doesn't want to do anything that might make Spencer lie. Spencer's perfectly capable of pulling some stupid self-sacrificing stunt yet _again_ if he thinks that's what Ryan wants.

"I –" says Spencer. "Do you?"

" _Spence._ "

"This is – oh," says Brendon, and gives Spencer a careful look. "This is what you were asking about?"

Spencer nods. Ryan doesn't know what Brendon means, but that doesn't matter. What matters is Spencer's answer. "Well?" he says.

Spencer shakes his head. "Look, I –"

"What do _you_ want?" says Brendon.

Spencer looks down. "You only just made friends again. You're not allowed to gang up on me," he mutters.

"Spencer," says Jon.

Spencer bites his lip and looks up at the sky, and then back at Ryan, then Brendon, then Jon. "I guess," he says. "I guess I – we're doing a good thing here, aren't we? For the kids, and. Everything. What we're doing –" He trails off. "What you did," he says to Jon. "What you did for us."

"You – no," says Jon. "You don't owe me anything, Spencer, you –"

"That's not what I'm saying," Spencer says. "I – fuck. Tell him, Ryan."

Ryan got it almost as soon as Spencer started talking – and that means it's okay to move now, so he does, leaning into Jon and resting his head on his shoulder. "He wants to stay," he says. "He doesn't want to go." He can't stop smiling. If Spencer wanted to leave, really wanted to, then they'd go. Ryan would go with him, and he'd have to leave Jon behind. Maybe leave Brendon, too. It's better this way. "We're staying," he says.

Jon breathes out, slow and loud, and says, "Thank _god_." He sounds – Ryan had expected him to be happy. He didn't expect him to sound so fucking relieved, so _freed._

"We're staying," he repeats, so he can see the smile breaking across Jon's face.

Brendon makes a small noise. Ryan looks up. His face is buried against Spencer's shoulder, and Spencer's arm is curled protectively around him.

  
"Brendon?" Ryan says, just as Jon says, "Bren?"

Spencer grins and rubs his thumb across the back of Brendon's neck, where his hairline meets skin. "He's crying," he says.

"I am _not_ ," Brendon says, muffled against Spencer's shirt. "You take that back. You _lie_ , Spencer Smith." He swipes the back of his hand across his eyes as he looks up.

Ryan and Spencer exchange looks, and Ryan raises his eyebrows. Spencer gives him a wide, perfect smile.

"So I –" says Brendon, and then, "so we're really –"

"Together," says Ryan. "We're sticking together."

"Together," Jon echoes softly. He sounds sort of dazed and happier than Ryan's heard him since – since before they got here, maybe happier than Ryan's ever heard him.

"So you can stop clinging, you limpet," says Spencer. "I told you already, I'm not going anywhere."

"I – shut up," says Brendon. "I'm not _clinging._ And anyway I can't stop if you don't let go of me." Spencer chuckles and doesn't move his arm away from him. "Stop laughing at me!" says Brendon. "I'll have vengeance, okay, you watch out –"

Ryan watches the easy way they fit together, the sparkle in Brendon's eyes and the smile on Spencer's face. He can't see a single gap between them, they're pressed so close. He's amazed at himself for not being jealous. Spencer is – it always used to be that Spencer was his.

Now Spencer's theirs.

Or – maybe Spencer's his own. Or maybe Ryan's Spencer's, or – and there's Jon, too, and perhaps they're all each other's. This is what freedom really is, Ryan thinks, these shifting webs of belonging, these nets that are light and strong and welcome.

"You could tickle him," says Jon, grinning as he watches Brendon and Spencer bicker. "That would be an appropriate vengeance, I bet."

"No!" says Spencer.

Ryan smirks. "Under his arms," he says, nodding meaningfully at Brendon. "Every time. Oh, and ribs."

"Shut _up_ , Ry –" says Spencer, but it's too late, Brendon's eyes go wide and then he's whooping gleefully and going for it, his fingers darting into sensitive spots. "No – no – ack!" Spencer gasps, trying to shove him off and giggling uncontrollably. "Brendon, stop it, Ryan you're the worst best friend ever. _Brendon_!" Brendon pushes him down into the grass and straddles him, shoving his shirt up to tickle his ribs. Spencer flails and grabs Brendon's hips to push him off, gasping, "Help!" Ryan can't stop snickering.

"Help, did you say?" says Jon. "I'll help, here –" He pulls away from Ryan and crawls across to the two of them in their giggly heap of limbs. He grabs one of Spencer's wrists, stopping him from pushing Brendon away.

Brendon's laughing already but now he laughs harder as Spencer gasps breathlessly, "That is _not_ what I meant!"

Jon says, "I'm helping!"

"I think you were meant to help _him_ ," says Ryan, deadpan.

"Where's the fun in that?" says Jon.

Spencer, with an almighty effort, manages to break free of Jon's grip and shove Brendon off in the same movement, scrambling away from them in the grass. "Ryan, Ryan, save me," he says, reaching out. Ryan grabs his hands and tugs him forward until Spencer's sitting beside him, and he sneaks one arm around Spencer's waist while Spencer glares suspiciously at Jon and Brendon. Spencer can't hold the glare, the corners of his mouth are twitching up, and Brendon and Jon laugh at him.

Ryan smirks to himself and waits until Spencer's breathing has evened out before he walks the fingers of his free hand up the back of Spencer's calf and then tickles under his knee. Spencer's yell of outrage is gratifyingly loud, and he glares at Ryan as he jerks away. "What?" says Ryan innocently.

"Oh no you _don't_ ," Spencer says, and then he's tickling Ryan, his fingers light and insistent at the back of Ryan's neck and under his ribs, and Ryan's wheezing for breath after only a few seconds because the problem with knowing all Spencer's weak spots is that Spencer also knows all of his. He's giggling so hard he can't see straight and then Spencer says, "Guys, his feet too," and no, no _way_. He kicks out automatically just as Jon grabs one of his ankles and runs his short nails along the sole of Ryan's foot. "Jon!" gasps Ryan, and Jon says, "Oof!" as Ryan plants a kick right in the center of his chest, and somehow in the middle of all that Spencer's enlisted Brendon and Brendon's hands are under Ryan's arms. "Not fair, not _fair_ ," Ryan wheezes. "Jon, you're on my side, be on my side –" and Jon says "Only because you kick like a fucking donkey, Ross," but he goes for Spencer again, tackling him down into the grass.

They're all shrieking and laughing like lunatics, like little kids, and the air is warm and the sun is bright and it feels _so good_. Ryan grabs Brendon's wrists to get his wicked hands the fuck away and pushes him backwards, and when he meets Brendon's eyes they're shining, and he's smiling all over his face, that incredible Brendon smile, broad and brilliant. Ryan runs his fingers up Brendon's side and grins at his yelp of protest. He gives it a second and then surges forward, knocks Brendon onto his back and sits triumphantly on his chest, leaning down so most of his weight is resting on Brendon's good shoulder. He tickles under Brendon's chin. Brendon yells and kicks but there's no way he's getting away, not with only his weak arm free, no matter how much he flails. Ryan can't stop, and can't stop giggling, and this is strange and different and good and real.

He pauses for breath, because he's panting too, from all this laughter, and he sits back on his haunches, his knees planted on either side of Brendon's chest. Suddenly everything's gone quiet again, like the whole world's retreated a little bit, and it's just him and Brendon's huge dark eyes. Ryan remembers that first evening in the caravan, those same dark eyes looking at him through the bars of a cage, Brendon holding out bandages, their first ally in so long. His eyes aren't as solemn now as they were then. There's still a gleam of laughter in them, even as Brendon licks his lips and says uncertainly, "Ryan?" He shifts as much as he can under Ryan's weight, propping himself up on his good elbow, staring up at Ryan's face.

Ryan fixed things, he did, and yet – it didn't feel finished. Maybe it wasn't finished.

He glances around at Spencer and Jon. The two of them were laughing and wrestling playfully a moment ago but now they're not, now they're watching him. Ryan meets Spencer's eyes and bites his lip. He doesn't want to take anything from anyone else. He doesn't want to spoil what he's got now, this incredible thing he's found.

Spencer tilts his head for a moment, considering, and then shakes it ruefully. His hair is a mess, it's in his eyes, and there are blades of long grass tangled in it, just the way there were another day, long ago, when Ryan kissed him the very first time and everything was different and he had no idea Brendon or Jon existed.

Brendon was already a slave then.

"It's all right," Spencer says.

"Spence?" says Jon, looking from him to Ryan and then down at Brendon. They're all three watching Jon, now, and the air is full of tension, and Jon says, "What's -?"

Ryan doesn't know what to say. He holds out a hand to him instead, and when Jon takes it he curls his long fingers around Jon's strong calloused ones.

"Ryan –" says Brendon.

Spencer says, "Shh."

"I," says Jon, meeting Ryan's eyes and smiling, and it's an uncertain smile but it's honest too. It's a good smile. "I guess it's not like I didn't see this coming," he says, and then laughs. "Well, except for the bit where I never saw _any_ of this coming."

"Jon," Ryan says.

"Yeah," says Jon, and he brings Ryan's hand to his lips, turns it over, kisses his wrist just above the pulse. "Yeah."

Ryan swallows and ducks his head. The place where Jon's mouth touched his skin feels hot. He squeezes Jon's hand and lets it go, turns back to Brendon.

Brendon's eyes are so, so wide.

Ryan says, "Do you remember...?" He feels Brendon's flinch under him, full-bodied, sees his expression begin to close down. "Don't," he says urgently. "It's not – I –"

"Ryan," Brendon says, "I'm so, so –"

"No more apologies," Ryan says firmly, cutting him off.

Brendon falls silent. There's a moment's pause. Ryan listens to them all breathing, Brendon, and Spencer, and Jon.

"I meant –" he says at last. "Do you remember, after?"

Brendon nods, speechless.

"You tried to kiss me," Ryan says.

"You – you wouldn't let me," Brendon answers, voice barely above a whisper. The sunlight is painting bright reflections on his dark hair.

"I –" Ryan says. He glances sideways at Spencer and Jon, wanting to know they're still there, needing the reassurance. Spencer has his arm hooked over Jon's shoulder, steadying him. They're both watching intently. They're both _there._

Ryan looks back down at Brendon, shakes his head in frustration and says, "Just –" And then he stops, because he's done too much talking.

He leans in slowly, a hand on Brendon's good shoulder, his knees still planted firmly on either side of Brendon's ribcage. Brendon is breathing fast and light, and his eyes flutter closed as Ryan gets close, his eyelashes dark against his fair skin. He licks his lips, red tongue darting out. Ryan hesitates just a second longer, when they're so close together he can feel the warm rush of air on his skin every time Brendon breathes out. Then he finishes what he's started, closes the last short distance between them, and covers Brendon's mouth with his.

He's expecting it to be awkward, maybe, careful, like the first kisses he shared with Jon. Or questioning, unsure, like kissing Spencer the morning they rescued Jon and left Tom behind, even the slightest touch full of all the tangled-up threads of the past.

It's not like either of those. It's sweet and tender and easy, and Brendon kisses back tentatively, hopefully, his full mouth that smiles and sings and talks nineteen to the dozen pressing lightly against Ryan's, lips only slightly parted. Ryan runs his hand from Brendon's shoulder up along the line of his throat and leaves it resting in Brendon's dark hair, cradling his head, not holding, just touching. Brendon's hair is soft against his fingers and his breath catches a little against Ryan's mouth, and Ryan lets his tongue flicker out just a little, just an offer, a promise, licking Brendon's lower lip.

After a moment that seems to last a million years and not nearly long enough, he reluctantly breaks the kiss and sits back. He should maybe stop _sitting on Brendon_ , actually, but – but he doesn't want to, and Brendon doesn't seem to mind.

Brendon stares at him, his mouth still hanging open a little, and touches his own lower lip with two fingers of his left hand, as if to reassure himself it's still real.

"Well?" Ryan says.

Brendon makes a fist out of his hand, presses it against his mouth and says, "I -," muffled, and stops.

Ryan wishes he didn't feel quite so nervous. He's sure, he _knows_ Brendon wants him. Brendon told him so. He's – he wishes he weren't afraid.

And then suddenly there are arms sliding around him from behind, Jon's arms, and Jon holds him tight and drops a kiss at the place where his shirt is hanging open a little over his collarbone. "You're something, Ryan Ross," he murmurs.

Ryan closes his eyes, and when he opens them Spencer's there too. He gives Ryan a warm quick look before he turns his attention to Brendon, leaning across Ryan so he can wrap both of Brendon's hands in his. Ryan watches that for a moment, the tangle of their fingers, Spencer's freckles, the way their joined hands look against the green grass. He's glad they're doing this out here, in the open, in the summer, in the light.

"You can say no, Bren," Spencer says. "You can do whatever you want."

Brendon swallows. Ryan watches his Adam's apple bob, bites his lip, and says again, "Well?"

"I – _Ryan_ ," rips out of Brendon's throat, low and raw and full of so, so much, and really, he's _so_ easy to read.

So it's as simple as that. Ryan smiles. "Good," he says. "Good."

He touches Brendon's face, a quick brush of his fingers against the slight roughness of his jaw. Brendon's eyes close and open again, and his mouth starts to stretch into another one of those smiles. Spencer creeps closer and slips an arm under the small of Brendon's back so he can half-support him, and his knee is pressed against the side of Ryan's leg. While Ryan watches, he kisses Brendon's jaw, and Brendon shivers and smiles and leans into him, not taking his eyes away from Ryan. Jon's strong arms tighten around Ryan's chest, warm and close.

"Are we – what is this?" Jon asks, hooking his chin over Ryan's shoulder.

And that's easy.

"It's us," says Ryan. "It's us."

[Epilogue](http://community.livejournal.com/shacklesnchains/5136.html)


	19. But Not The Song (Epilogue)

_  
**Epilogue**   
_

_August._

There was a thunderstorm during the night, and the day dawns cool and crisp. It's a welcome break from weeks of sweltering heat.

Brendon lies awake listening to the birds, the sound of footsteps on the floor above, the quiet breathing next to him. He doesn't have to turn to know there are two with him in the bed. Ryan joined them sometime during the night, slipping in silently while they both slept. It happens a couple of times a week; Brendon will wake up to the sound of two people breathing rather than one, or quiet whispering from where Ryan and Spencer are curled together, or Ryan sitting on the bench by the window, his legs drawn up and his expression thoughtful.

The second time that happened, Brendon sat next to him on the bench, yawned and said, "He's not going to vanish in the night."

Ryan was staring out the window, not looking at him, and he only said, "I just like to know." Brendon can't tease him for that, because he likes to know Spencer is there every night too, warm and solid and sprawling, with an annoying habit of stealing Brendon's pillow and a much less annoying habit of waking Brendon on some mornings with soft, feathery kisses over his shoulders and chest.

Brendon slides out from under the sheets, yawns and stretches. His shoulder still twinges when he moves it too much or too fast, but he's gotten used to it, knows what he can't do. He dresses slowly, standing in front of the window as he buttons up his shirt, and scrubs a hand through his hair rather than combing it. They have a comb now, set on the vanity beside the razors and wash basin and silver mirror. Ryan found them all one day while looking for a pair of scissors to cut his hair. Even though the set belongs to Gerard it felt like a gift when Ryan brought it to their room and said dryly, "You can at least pretend not to take all your grooming tips from the wild men of the forest."

Brendon doesn't much care about grooming, but he likes the way the room has _belongings_ in it now: the clutter on the vanity, shoes on the floor and clothes draped over the chair, ink and paper on the desk where Spencer practices reading and writing, a chipped mug on the bedside table.

He doesn't try to be silent while he dresses, and when he's done he leans over the bed, his hands planted in the still-warm spot he's just abandoned. Spencer's lying on his back and Ryan has an arm draped over his chest, anchoring him as though he expects Spencer to float away.

"Good morning," Brendon sings quietly, close to Spencer's ear. "Another day is on its way, we must -" He pauses and looks up thoughtfully, then sings in a rush, "We must do something-that-rhymes-with-day without delay. That doesn't scan, does it?"

Spencer wrinkles his nose and says, "Mmmph," and on his other side, his voice muffled against Spencer's shoulder, Ryan mumbles, "Go away." He reaches out blindly across Spencer, but his hand doesn't come anywhere near close enough to shove Brendon away.

Brendon laughs. "That's good. _Go away_ , that totally rhymes."

In answer Ryan grabs the edge of the sheet and pulls it over his head. A second later Spencer wrinkles his nose again and shoves the sheet down.

Brendon smiles to himself and turns away. He figures he'll give it an hour or so before he comes back and adds another verse. Someday soon, he thinks, they'll realize that as long as they keep groaning and hiding under the covers, he's going to keep singing to them. There's no particular reason for them to be up this early anyway, and they're kind of cute when they're like this - like snoring, boneless, grumpy puppies, though Brendon's only ever said that to Jon, and Jon solemnly agreed it was both very accurate and probably not an observation they would appreciate.

The floorboards creak familiarly as Brendon leaves the room, walks down the hallway and down the stairs. There are voices in the kitchen: Jon's laugh, Frank's high giggle, the quick chatter of two women. Their names are Alice and Holly, and they're the last of a dozen women rescued from an auction three weeks ago. They're only staying so long because the baby has been sick. Neither of them is his mother - they don't talk about it much, but Brendon thinks she was a friend who died in childbirth - but they've adopted him and won't hear any arguments about it.

Brendon stops in the doorway of the kitchen and leans against the wall. It's a moment before anybody notices him. Frank is telling some story - his usual kind of story, involving a lot of excited gesturing and creative swearing and wild exaggeration - and the two girls are laughing. Jon is sitting cross-legged on the floor by the door to the pantry, holding a tiny, sleeping puff of black fur in his lap. One of the cats that lives in Lyn's stable in the village had kittens, and the moment they were old enough Jon snatched one of them away. ("Seriously?" Ryan had asked incredulously, when Jon brought her back to the manor wrapped up in an old shirt, letting her gnaw on his fingers and cooing at her in a ridiculous voice. " _Seriously?_ " And Jon replied, "You guys have to help me think of a good name." It was Spencer who suggested they call her Summer.)

"Morning," Jon says, smiling up at him.

Brendon sits down beside him and reaches out to scratch Summer behind the ears. She stretches her little head out and purrs loudly. "Good morning," Brendon says, leaning his head on Jon's shoulder. "It's not raining anymore."

"The storm knocked down some branches," says Jon. "And if there's any more wind like that I think that dead oak will crash right into the stable. We should cut it down."

Holly shifts the baby from one hip to the other and says, "The window in our room leaks. There was water all over the floor this morning. We have to fix that too." She glances at them nervously when she says it, but she doesn't waver and she doesn't hesitate.

"Sure," Brendon says. "We'll look at it." And he's thinking, _good, that's good_. He doesn't know her story, where she came from or how long she was a slave. He still likes that it's only taken her a couple of weeks to learn to be a little bit bossy, to ask for what she wants without fear.

"Need extra help?" Frank asks.

Jon raises his eyebrows. "You sure you don't have plans today? Go to the village, learn a little bit more about blacksmithing, maybe hammer some things..."

Frank tries to glare at him, but it only lasts a few seconds. "Fuck off, Walker. I'm learning to make knives."

Brendon grins against Jon's shoulder. "Is that what they call it down in the village?"

Frank makes a rude gesture in response, and they all laugh again.

Brendon eats breakfast quickly and goes outside with Jon before the rest of the house wakes up. The Ways aren't exactly morning people - Brendon's pretty sure they would both be completely nocturnal if they could - and the kids will sleep as long as they can possibly get away with. There are only the five of them left out of the original group, Cash and Ian and the three Alexes. Sometime around mid-July, after a number of plans that fell apart and arrangements that never went through, everybody just stopped assuming they were going to leave. Brendon suspects this is mostly Mikey's doing. He seems to like having them around, eager to soak up every random, rambling thing he has to say about music.

The oak tree by the stable really does look like it's about to fall over, so Brendon helps Jon carry out the saws and hatchets. He doesn't mind working outside around the estate, not when there are chores to be done and nobody gets punished if they leave a task half-finished at suppertime. He's not sure how much Gerard even notices the improvements they've been making to the house and grounds throughout the summer. It took him five weeks to notice the new curtains in the dining room, and another two weeks before he believed that Bob - who was a sailor long ago, before he was captured, and is surprisingly skilled with a needle and thread - was the one who made them.

There's still a lot of work to be done, but at least it feels like a house now rather than an ornate crypt.

"I'm climbing," Jon announces as soon as they're outside.

Brendon scowls. "I can climb."

"Can you climb and chop at the same time?"

Brendon looks up at the tree. He's pretty sure his arm is strong enough to hang on while he uses the other to chop, but he's not absolutely certain. "Maybe?"

Jon laughs. "I thought so. Let's not do anything that'll make you break your neck today, okay?"

Brendon huffs and crosses his arms. "You're no fun." But he stays on the ground, collecting the broken branches Jon tosses down and hauling them over to the firewood block.

They've been working for a couple hours when Spencer comes out to join them, and Jon climbs down so they can take down the main trunk of the tree using the two-handed saw. Brendon stands back a safe distance, shouting helpfully and laughing at their replies -"Put your backs into it!" "Fuck you, Brendon," "Use your knees more!" "No, really, _fuck you_ ," - until the tree finally comes down with a magnificent crash.

"Cool," Brendon says approvingly.

"Don't encourage them." Ryan is standing right behind Brendon's shoulder. Brendon hadn't noticed him approaching. "They'll cut the whole forest down to impress you."

Brendon rolls his eyes, but he smiles a little bit too. "Nah, they'll get bored and start building a stick fort for Summer before they do too much damage."

Ryan laughs and Brendon feels the familiar thrill in his chest. He doesn't think he'll ever get tired of making Ryan laugh. "Well, at least we know where their true affections lie," Ryan says. "Stolen away by a kitten - do you hear that?" He tilts his head to one side suddenly and looks toward the driveway.

Brendon does. "Somebody's coming." He can hear horses' hooves and the rattle of carriage wheels. He walks with Ryan around the front side of the stable. They aren't expecting any visitors, and even though there are only a few escaped slaves in the house, definitely not enough to arouse suspicion, he still feels a pang of worry.

The visitors come into view a minute later. There are two riders ahead of a sleek black carriage, moving from sunlight to shadow under the overarching branches of the trees that crowd the side of the drive.

Ryan says quietly, still standing at Brendon's shoulder, "That's Saporta's carriage."

Brendon starts to ask him how he knows - the man has never been to the Ways' estate as far as he knows, certainly not since they've been here - but he stops short as the riders come nearer. He feels his mouth drop open and Ryan is asking him something but he barely hears it. The riders rein their horses to a halt in front of the house, and it's only as they jump down that Brendon finds his voice.

" _Ryland_?" He runs forward a few steps and stops abruptly. " _Alex_?"

He's too stunned to move, but Ryland takes the last few steps for him, catching him up in a hug that lifts Brendon's feet off the ground. "It is so fucking good to see you, you little brat," Ryland says with a laugh, releasing Brendon and ruffling his hair.

"But what - what are you doing here?" Brendon asks.

Alex hooks his arm around Brendon's shoulder. "What, you're not happy to see us?" He's smiling, but there's something serious behind his words, and Brendon knows that's not what he's really asking.

It's been a year. A year since they disappeared in the night and left Brendon behind. A year since he was awoken by strangers in the house, dragged from bed and beaten in the courtyard, locked in chains and taken away to auction. A year, and worse has happened since then, but Brendon's chest feels tight and his clenches his hands into fists to keep them from shaking.

He steps away from Alex and looks at each of them in turn. He has no idea what they see on his face but Ryland exhales sharply and says, "Shit, Brendon, we're -"

"What are you doing here?" he asks again. He takes a step back and bumps into Ryan, still just behind him, still close enough to touch. He takes a breath and calmly asks, "Are you here on business?"

Alex and Ryland exchanges glances, then look over their shoulders at the same time as the smart carriage rattles to a stop behind them. Brendon doesn't recognize the driver.

"Something like that," Alex says. "Is Walker around?"

Brendon looks over his shoulder. Jon and Spencer are walking up, dirty and sweaty with leaves in their hair, and Jon is still carrying an axe. He's frowning slightly but he looks more confused than worried. This visit is a surprise to him too.

The carriage door swings open. A woman steps out, her long blonde hair twisted into a knot at the back of her head, and just behind her comes a man. He's tall and thin and flamboyantly dressed, with a hat tipped at a rakish angle over his dark hair. He casts a quick, appraising glance over the group gathered outside the carriage. "Well, isn't this grand," he says, smiling. "Our merry band of conspirators is here to greet us."

"Is this the part where I'm supposed to say 'what a pleasant surprise'?" Jon says. He shakes his head a little, but he's smiling as he steps forward. "You could have let us know you were coming, Saporta. We would've chased the bats out of the guest bedrooms for you."

Saporta laughs. "Where's the fun in that? There's no sense checking up on you if you've got time to prepare."

Jon rolls his eyes and lifts his axe to rest it over his shoulder. "Damn it," he says dryly. "Now you're going to find the moonshine and shut us down for sure."

"Oh, no," says Saporta. He turns back to the carriage door and offers his hand to somebody inside. "That's not what I've got planned for you, Walker."

Whatever Jon says in answer Brendon misses, because Saporta is helping somebody down from the carriage, a woman in a blue dress, and Brendon sees her shoes and her hand and the dark fall of hair over her shoulder and _oh._

 _Oh._

Lady Victoria withdraws her hand from Saporta's and smiles. "Hello, Brendon."

It's like - it's like falling flat on his back and having the wind knocked out of him, so sudden and strong he feels like he's gasping for breath. Of course, of _course_ , Ryland and Alex wouldn't be here - he should have known as soon as he saw them. Brendon can't find the words to answer - _hello_ or _you left me_ or _I'm free here_ or _why didn't you tell me_ or - Victoria's smile starts to fade uncertainly the longer Brendon remains silent, and he doesn't notice that he's swaying until he feels a hand on his elbow, the grip almost too tight to be reassuring. But it's Ryan, Ryan always holds on too tight.

"Hello," Brendon says. The greeting dangles, half-finished. Brendon wonders if he's the only one who hears the _my lady_ deliberately dropped from the end. He feels eyes on him, watching and waiting. He looks away from Victoria quickly, down at the ground, over at Jon and Spencer, at the horses, at the forest, and he doesn't know what he's supposed to say.

Saporta gives him a quick, keen look, then returns his attention to Jon. "Well?" he says expectantly, gesturing at the house. "Aren't you going to show me what the hell you've been up to out here in the wilderness?"

"Sure," Jon says. "I don't know if the Ways are even awake yet." But he doesn't move. He looks at Brendon, then meets Spencer's eyes for a second. Neither of them says anything, but Spencer nods slightly, and Jon gestures with his axe, motioning for Saporta to follow. "Come on," he says. "I'll give you the grand tour."

The blonde woman and Alex and Ryland follow too, and the driver of the carriage leads their horses toward the stable.

Victoria steps forward and she lifts her hand like she's going to reach out, then flicks a glance over Brendon's shoulder and drops it quickly. Brendon doesn't have to turn to know Spencer is standing behind him and Spencer can look intimidating when he tries, he's been taking lessons from Bob or something, Brendon doesn't know but he's _glad_ for it. So fucking glad, and it's not even difficult to pull his elbow out of Ryan's grasp and step toward her. Her smile gets wider, less forced, and something in Brendon's chest unknots.

"Hi," he says. "Fancy meeting you here."

And she _laughs_ , startled and bright, and puts her fingers over her mouth to stop herself. The gesture, the laughter, they're so familiar Brendon feels a little giddy. He had thought he would never hear it again. Victoria says, "Gabe has something to say to you - to all of you." She looks over Brendon's shoulder again, her gaze settling first on Ryan, then on Spencer. "I'm sure he'll tell you all about it," she says. "Brendon and I will be right along."

It's a dismissal. It hasn't been so long that Brendon's forgotten what that sounds like, but maybe it's been long enough. He feels Ryan bristle beside him, and for some reason it's reassuring rather than worrisome. He crosses his arms, uncrosses them nervously, looks down at his feet and back up at Victoria, but he doesn't say anything, and he's grateful that Ryan and Spencer aren't walking away.

Victoria narrows her eyes for a moment, then she tilts her head upward, toward the house or the treetops or the sky. When she looks at Brendon again she's smiling sadly. "I want to talk to you," she says.

" _No_ ," Ryan snaps. He takes a jerky step toward her, standing not quite in front of Brendon. "You don't own him anymore. You can't - you don't give him _orders_ anymore."

Victoria's eyes widen in surprise, and Brendon can see how she wants to snap back but stops herself. "I know," she says instead. "I'm not. I'm asking. Brendon, may I talk to you for a few minutes?"

Brendon doesn't answer right away, not until Ryan turns to look at him, his expression worried and questioning, not until Spencer says quietly, "You don't have to, Bren. Only if you want."

"Okay," he says finally. He gives them a smile he knows won't convince them. "It's okay. It's not a big deal."

Ryan looks like he's about to argue, but Spencer says, "Okay. We'll go. Come on, Ry."

He touches Brendon's arm briefly before walking away, and after a few seconds Ryan follows. Brendon watches them go up the stairs to the house. When the door shuts behind them, he turns back to Victoria.

"They're very protective," she says, still smiling a little.

"They're just -" Brendon stops. He hasn't thought about it like that before. They're only being themselves, in the way Ryan finds an excuse to remind them every day they aren't slaves anymore, the way Spencer is always watchful, always caring. "We look out for each other," he says, and he feels like laughing for how inadequate an explanation that is.

"That's good," says Victoria, nodding. "It's good that you found - that's good."

She falls silent, and Brendon watches the breeze playfully catch a wisp of her hair.

He says, "Why didn't you -" and she starts to ask, "Is there someplace -" but they both break off quickly. "Go on," Victoria says.

Brendon shakes his head. "You first."

"Is there someplace we can go?" She looks around and stares briefly at the driver unhitching the horses from the carriage. "Rather than standing in the middle of the drive?"

Brendon looks at the house for a moment. There are too many people inside, talking about too many things. "There's the garden," he says. He turns to go around the back of the house, stops short when he realizes he's ahead of Lady Victoria, then feels stupid and starts walking again so quickly he almost trips over his own feet. He's allowed to walk in front of her, to tell her where to go. This is _his_ home, not hers, and she's not - she's not even a noblewoman anymore, not since all her property was seized.

"It's not really a garden," he says. He wants to look back to see that she's following but he doesn't. "I mean, it used to be, I guess, but Gerard and Mikey, they're lousy at doing any kind of maintenance. It's been overgrown for years."

"Oh, lord," Victoria laughs as they round the corner of the house. Brendon does let himself look then. She's only a few steps behind him, holding up her long skirt so it doesn't snag on the untrimmed shrubs. "'Overgrown' is a generous word for it. Is there even a path here?"

"Sort of," Brendon says, laughing. He kicks at a few dried, dead vines and stomps on a thin branch to clear a makeshift path. "There probably is one under all the vines. Spencer was going to plant some things, but we got busy with other stuff. And we tried to get the kids to clear it up a little, but as soon as somebody overheard them pretending to be explorers chopping their way through the jungle they stopped. They think they're too old to pretend."

"The kids?" asks Victoria. She's following him without complaint, even though her shoes are getting scratched and her stockings snagged. "Haven't they all been moved to foster homes?"

"Some of them are staying." There's a curved stone bench near the edge of the garden, beside what used to be a fish pond but is now only a dry, cracked basin of dark gray stone. Brendon stops beside the bench and waits for Victoria to sit down first - not because he has to, he thinks, but because that's what a gentleman does. "We tried to find a family that would take five teenage boys, but none of them worked out," he says. "And I think Gerard and Mikey actually like having them around. Not that they'd ever admit it."

Victoria sits on the bench and arranges her skirts, looking for all the world like a guest at a fine garden party. Brendon sits next to her and looks down at his hands. They're dirty and scraped up from the work he did earlier, and there are holes in the cuffs of his sleeves. There are a thousands things he wants to say, before, questions he's been collecting and discarding for the last year. He never truly believed he'd have a chance to ask. But now that he does, now that she's here, sitting beside him in the sun, he can't remember any of them.

She says suddenly, "Gabe says the younger brother, Mr. Way -"

"Mikey," Brendon interrupts without thinking. "He hates being called Mr. Way." Victoria blinks at him, and Brendon feels his face grow hot. "Sorry," he says, looking down.

But she only says, "Gabe says he's quite a musician. Do you play with him?"

"Yes," says Brendon. "Yeah, I do, all the time. Mikey mostly likes strings but he has all kinds of instruments, and he knows a lot. The kids, they play too, sometimes. We're teaching them - well, I am, mostly, but Mikey's paying more attention now that they're getting better." He can't help the note of pride that slips into his voice, and this, this is easy, talking about the people around him, the things he does, the things that are _his_. "They didn't know anything at first. They were gladiators - they didn't even know how to sing, just shout a lot, but they really like it and it's fun. It's fun," he repeats, and he stops talking, suddenly awkward again.

Victoria is watching him, squinting in the midday sun. He thinks about how she never remembered to bring a parasol on picnics, how other noblewomen would tut-tut and worry that her face would line, how she would only laugh at them and throw her head back, close her eyes and smile in the sunlight. A year has passed and Brendon doesn't think she looks older. Only sadder.

"You've changed," she says quietly.

 _I'm free now_ , he thinks. _I'm not a slave anymore_. But what he says is, "A lot has changed."

Victoria makes a sudden movement, drops both of her hands to the bench beside her and squares her shoulders. She looks out across the garden with a determined expression on her face. "I have something for you," she says. "There's been a lot of trouble in town lately. There have been - well, problems."

When she doesn't go on right away, Brendon asks, "What kind of problems?" Jon tells him all the news he gets from the other agents in the Cobra, but he knows that lately Jon has been frustrated with the lack of information.

"It's not - you'll find out later," says Victoria, not looking at him. "It _is_ important, but not - not right now. Only that - a few weeks ago there was a man, a judge, somebody rather important, and there was a scandal." She shakes her head quickly, as though dispelling unwanted thoughts. "The details aren't important. Maja was following the man - you saw Maja, she's Gabe's bodyguard - and she, she _found_ some papers, some documents belonging to one of the man's acquaintances. And she found this."

Victoria reaches into a hidden pocket in her skirt and draws out a folded sheet of paper.

"What is it?" Brendon asks.

"Take it," she says, holding it out to him. "Take it. It's -" Her voice trembles slightly, and she pauses to swallow, lick her lips, and she's still not looking at Brendon. "It's yours."

Brendon unfolds the page and looks down. He notices the word scrawled across the bottom first, beside the neat circle of Victoria's seal. His breath catches and there's a roaring in his ears and - his name, it's his name, his handwriting, he remembers writing it because - because she asked him to, she said _do you trust me?_ and he answered _yes_ without hesitation and he signed because she asked him to and -

The page rattles and he lowers his hand to his knee to keep it from shaking as he reads the rest. At the top of the page: the name of her estate, the province in the north, the date, all written in Victoria's elegant handwriting. And below that:

 _Let it be known that on this day, the Nineteenth of August in this Year of Our Lord, I, Victoria Asher, Countess of Arndale, have liberated, manumitted and set free the slave Brendon Urie, aged twenty years old; and I liberate and discharge him from all services or demand of services by me or any person or persons representing or claiming to represent me or any other entity claiming ownership. As witnessed in my hand and seal upon the date above written,_

At the bottom is Victoria's signature, bolding and looping on the tattered page just above Brendon's. Beside it is Ryland's, the word "witness" printed neatly underneath.

Brendon stares at the words without blinking for a long time.

"I meant to set you free," Victoria says, her voice barely more than a whisper. "I thought - when we left, I thought they would find this and they would know -"

"They did find it," says Brendon. His voice sounds rough even to his own ears, and his heart is pounding painfully in his chest. He remembers the page lying on the floor, the unseen man's casual dismissal. "They - they did. They just didn't care."

Victoria makes a tiny noise, but when he looks up her face is as composed and serene as ever. "I should have known there was a chance that would happen," she says, now at a normal volume. "The officials, they have no honor. They'll do whatever they want. I should have known." She clears her throat and folds her hands neatly in her lap. "It's meaningless now, just a piece of paper. You're already free. You don't need that. It's only a worthless piece of paper."

"Why -" Brendon looks down at the paper again. The words blur before him and he blinks rapidly, and the words are tumbling out before he can stop them. "I didn't know, when they came, I didn't know - I told them. About Nate coming to visit you, about - I didn't know, I only saw his back but you said - Pete Wentz's stable boy, that was Tom, wasn't it? Tom was at the house and I told them and that's how they knew to - to look for him, for him and Jon, because I told them and they -"

"It wasn't your fault, Brendon," she says quietly. "None of it was your fault."

She's still not looking at him and he wants her to turn, he wants to reach out and touch her shoulder, her neck, her face, the smooth skin he used to know so well. But he's never touched her without permission. The kisses, the caresses, even the playful breaths on ticklish spots that made her squirm and giggle - never without permission, and now, now everything is different and he only wants to touch her, but she looks as though she might shatter under a comforting hand.

He holds onto the paper with both hands to keep from reaching out and brushes his thumb over the ink, imagining that he can feel the words etched into the paper. _Brendon Urie_. "I never knew before," he says, mostly to himself. He turns the surname over in his mind, tries it on his tongue, looking for some spark of recognition, but there's nothing. It might as well be a stranger's name. "My family name. None of my owners ever said."

"You were freeborn," Victoria says quietly. "It's - it was on your papers."

"Nobody ever said," he says. He looks up and across the garden, then turns to study her profile. "Why didn't you tell me?"

He isn't asking about his name, and she knows it.

She doesn't answer right away. The day is growing hot and there are fat bees humming through the garden, dancing from flower to flower in wobbly lines. On the third floor of the house some of the windows are open, curtains billowing out in the breeze. Brendon counts over from the end, one-two-three-four, that's the room he shares with Spencer (and sometimes Ryan - and sometimes Jon, those late nights when they're all talking and laughing, serious and silly, voices falling lower and words slurring tiredly until they're all more asleep than awake, wrapped together in a too-warm pile in a too-small bed). Somewhere in the house one of the women is singing, a cheerful, bouncy song to entertain the baby.

"I should have," Victoria says finally.

Brendon looks at her, watches her shoulders move as she draws in a breath.

"I should have told you. I always thought I would," she goes on. "Someday. When it was safe, when it was different. My father had always owned slaves, my parents before they died, and people expected me - you were a good cover." She looks at him then, for the first time in several minutes, and her eyes are too bright. "Nobody suspects silly Lady Asher of having revolutionary ideals, not when she's trotting her pretty little musical pet out to play a song at every dinner party."

Brendon flinches at her words and the angry twist in her voice. He opens his mouth to say something - something, _anything_ , to ask if that was the reason all along, if she knew from the day she bought him what use he would be, if she ever thought during those four years - _four fucking years_ – that he should know, that he could help; to point out that her guests weren't the only ones applauding while he played. But he can't make a sound; his voice refuses to cooperate. His chest hurts and he feels hollowed out inside, detached and light, and the only thing he can feel is the heavy, fine paper between his fingers, creased and soft and gritty with dust.

"I always planned - someday. But I was selfish, I didn't want - I didn't expect you to be so -" She lifts one hand from her lap and reaches toward him. It's gentle and familiar and Brendon is closing his eyes before he can think about it, leaving into her touch. Her fingers are warm on his cheek, lingering for a moment and drawn away too quickly. "So _you_ ," she says, and he has to open his eyes again, he has to _see_ , because that's almost a laugh. Almost, but it's gone, and her breath is uneven for a moment before she continues, "They're probably waiting for you inside."

"What?"

"Gabe has something to say to you," Victoria says. She shifts subtly, turning just enough that she's angled away from Brendon, her hands once again folded in her lap. "Important news, big plans, you know, the usual madness. Well. You don't know, I suppose, but you should get used to it."

"But -" _But that's it? That's all you have to say?_ Brendon licks his lips and looks at the document in his hands. "Waiting for me?" he asks.

"They can't make their plans without you."

Brendon stands up, but he doesn't walk away yet. Victoria's head is angled down, her finger brushing over the petals of a wilting purple flower. He looks at her for a moment, and she knows he's watching, there's no way she can't. But she doesn't go still until he leans down and takes her hand, brings it to his lips and brushes a kiss over her fingers. Then he turns and walks away.

He's halfway across the garden before he hears her say, "Brendon."

He stops, half-turns, waits.

"I'm sorry."

Brendon closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them again, the sun is just as bright, the leaves just as green. "Me too," he says.

Inside the house is shadowy and cool, and he meets Spencer in the hallway just inside the door. "Hey, I was just going to come find you," Spencer says. "We're waiting for - are you okay?"

Brendon nods. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. What's going on?"

"Are you sure?" Spencer takes a step closer to him and puts a hand on Brendon's shoulder, the way he always does when he thinks Brendon needs calming, or is in danger of bolting, or just needs to be touched. Brendon knows his habits by now and that familiar gesture; it takes some of the tension from Brendon's shoulders. "You look - what is that?"

Brendon's still holding the paper in his hand. He stares at it for a few seconds, then folds it neatly into quarters and tucks it into his pocket. "Nothing," he says. "Just a piece of paper."

"Brendon?"

Brendon lets out a shuddery breath, and that's all the cue Spencer needs to wrap him in a tight hug, rub one hand up and down Brendon's back and press a soft, whispering kiss to his hair. Brendon rests his head on Spencer's shoulder and closes his eyes, and for a minute, maybe two, he doesn't think about anything except the feel of Spencer's arms around him, the sound of his heartbeat.

He finally pulls back a little and Spencer lets him go. "You okay?"

Brendon nods. "Yeah. I am. Just - later, all right?"

"Sure," Spencer agrees easily. "Come on, they really are waiting for us."

Ryan and Jon are in one of the drawing rooms on the first floor. Saporta is sitting in a crimson wing-backed chair across from them, his long legs stretched before him. His bodyguard Maja stands behind him, her face still and serene. She's dressed in silky dark clothes that cling to her curves and wide trousers that drape elegantly and show off her long legs, and there are fine dark lines of paint around her eyes and a twist of red ribbon in her carelessly knotted blonde hair. Six months ago Brendon would have assumed _courtesan_ , the way Saporta's associates are probably supposed to. Now he's met Frank and Bob and Alicia and he knows better. Her lazy stance is half a step off combat-ready, her eyes are alert, and he doesn't doubt for a second that the elaborate folds of her clothes hide weapons.

Ryan isn't looking directly at her, just the same. He's leaning on the desk by the window, arms folded, looking out at the garden, and if you didn't know, Brendon thinks, you might not be able to guess anything was wrong, might miss the flat line of his mouth and the sharp twist of his spine.

Though you could probably tell by looking at Jon. Jon is standing jealously beside him, close enough that his hip is pressed up against Ryan's, glaring. Brendon and Spencer don't even have to look at each other before they're moving too, Spencer going to Ryan's other side and putting a hand on the small of his back, meeting his eyes, while Brendon goes to stand halfway across the room, blocking the strangers from looking at him, crossing his arms and glaring too. "You wanted to talk to us?" he says.

Ryan snorts softly behind him. Brendon glances back and sees that he's looking at his own feet but smiling a little, and he's straightened up, relaxing into Spencer's touch, and Jon's, like they're steadying him. That's good. Brendon looks back at Saporta and Maja and wonders where the others are, if this is a Cobra meeting. He wishes Gerard and Mikey were here: they would stand beside him. Even if he'd been free all his life he thinks he'd have a little trouble defying a man with eyes like Saporta's.

Saporta's face twitches up into a half-smile which quickly vanishes again. He leans forward in his chair and plants his hands on his knees. "I did," he says. "First things first. Mr. Walker, if you look at the desk behind you, there's a newspaper from last week. Take a look at page four."

All of them turn to look as Jon blinks and picks up the paper, which crackles softly in his hands. He turns to the page and his eyes go wide as he reads out, "Dangerous fugitive Jonathan Walker… _drowned?_ "

"Oh yes," says Saporta. "An eagle-eyed soldier spotted you crossing the border near the Beckett place, and after wasting most of a month wondering if anyone would listen to him, he cautiously mentioned it to his commanding officer. _That_ efficient gentleman wisely spent another week dithering before he descended with a squadron upon the Beckett manor, only to find the Beckett _heir_ in residence." He grins. "Lord William was not at all happy to see them and was even less happy when they discovered clear evidence that a hole in the ground he insisted was a _disused_ smuggler's hideout had in fact been occupied fairly recently. He was so upset, in fact, by the thought of some peasant criminal daring to abuse his hospitality, that he insisted on hiring some of the country's finest bounty hunters to help our military friends track you down. And _they_ followed you all the way to the coast, where last Thursday they discovered no fewer than eight men prepared to swear blind that they'd seen you rendezvous three months ago with the captain of a known pirate ship that was in fact sunk by the Navy the week before last. And now the sailors of the good ship _Temerity_ have been alerted to the possibility, most of them are pretty sure they saw you there - especially if it means they get a share of the bounty."

Jon gapes.

Saporta raises an amused eyebrow and says, "It took a little doing. Don't thank me. Now, I wouldn't recommend introducing yourself to any officers of the law any time in the immediate future, but you should at least be able to walk down the street unmolested." He pauses, thinking about it. "If you wear a hat. And maybe shave."

"I –" says Jon, and he laughs a little. "A _hat_ , fuck." He's clutching the newspaper tight enough that it crumples and tears a little in his hand.

Ryan puts an arm around his waist. "You're not stuck here any more," he murmurs.

They all know that Jon's been going a little stir-crazy, though it's worse some days than others. He's used the traveling, carrying messages and helping people across provinces and borders, from one end of the country to another, but with a price on his head it's dangerous for him to go far from the estate. There are days when he doesn't want to talk to any of them, even Ryan, when he snaps at Brendon and won't meet Spencer's eyes, when Gerard's histrionics and Mikey's quiet weirdness don't amuse him but make his jaw tighten, when the kids know to stay away from him, when Frank and Bob watch him narrowly. Those are the days when he vanishes after lunch and doesn't come back until evening, and even then doesn't do anything except sit cross-legged on the bed he shares with Ryan and play with Summer.

It's the least fair part of everything that's happened, Brendon thinks, that the rest of them were set free, but Jon ended up trapped in a mansion a few miles from where his best friend was murdered.

Jon leans into Ryan's hold a little, closing his eyes. Then he opens them again, stands up straight, takes a step forward and says, "Where do you want me?"

Saporta looks like he's forcibly restraining himself from making a dirty joke, but the leer says enough. "All sorts of places, Walker," he says. "Matt and Eric and Disashi have a big bust planned for this year's Coronet market. They say they could use a hand but Travis'll probably go down to help them if you don't. Pete still needs messenger boys, but you won't be able to live under his roof any more. I've got opportunities set up all along the south coast that could use an experienced agent overseeing them – you come from down that way originally, don't you? – and Nate's up to something up north. And over and above all that, we've got trouble in town. The choice is yours."

Jon looks sort of stunned. He shakes his head a couple of times and says, "I don't –" He stops and looks around at the rest of them. His gaze lingers longest on Ryan, just, and Brendon knows what he's thinking. Whatever Saporta wants or plans or thinks is important, Jon isn't going anywhere without the rest of them.

"You don't have to decide at once," says Saporta. "The situation here seems to be under control, for now. I might send Brian down to keep an eye on them once you've left. But before you make any plans about what you're doing next, I have a few things to say to the rest of you."

"About what?" Ryan asks suspiciously.

"Trouble in town," says Saporta. "Maja?"

Maja's been watching the whole exchange in sharp-eyed silence. When she speaks, she has a slight accent that Brendon can't place. "We are no longer as secret as we should be," she says. "Pete, especially, is under suspicion. There have been incidents."

"When you're married to one of the Simpson girls you can be under as much suspicion as you like and no one can touch you," says Saporta. "Thank god for Ashlee and her connections. But it's not too hard to work out Pete's not in this alone. We think there may be –"

"There _is_ ," corrects Maja, "a team on our case. We do not know their names. We only know one of their faces. But they are _very_ good." She draws a rolled-up sheet of paper from a hidden pocket in her shirt and strides across to the desk to spread it out. They all crowd around, Ryan's elbow jostling Brendon's ribs, Jon leaning across him, Spencer frowning on Ryan's other side. Saporta comes to stand behind them. The paper has a drawing on it, an artist's impression of a man's face. It's strangely familiar, and Brendon blinks at it as Maja says, "This is the only one we know. I have seen him four, five times, in places he should not have known enough to be in. He is –"

"Bob," says Brendon suddenly.

"What?" says Maja.

"I – his name's Bob," says Brendon. "I've seen him before, at - when they came for Lady Victoria." _I liked this job a lot better when we were hunting down serial killers instead._ A man in the shadows giving orders. A beating.

Brendon had been alone.

Spencer gives him a concerned look across the table, and then nudges Ryan, who blinks and looks up and then shuffles closer to him. Jon puts his hand on Brendon's shoulder.

"Bob," mutters Saporta. "That's more than we knew before."

"There was another one," says Brendon. "A woman."

"We think – _I_ think – there are four," says Maja. "We do not know who gives them orders. Someone is trying to hunt us down."

"What does that have to do with us?" says Ryan. There's a sharp edge to his voice.

"We run a great deal of business through a certain property of Pete's," says Saporta, stepping back. They all look up from the picture to watch him as he starts to pace the length of the room. "Angels and Kings. A club. You know, music and gambling and dancing girls. Moderately fashionable, very silly, very much above – or rather, below – suspicion. We're worried that's going to change, now they don't have the wild goose chase after Walker here to distract them. Maja says she's seen this _Bob_ lurking around there, anyway. The people Pete has running the place are solid but they don't know too much, for safety's sake, and we don't want to tell them – again, for safety's sake. So I want an agent on base there to keep an eye on things."

"I don't know what you're thinking, Saporta," Jon says, "but I'd stick out like a sore thumb in a place like that. I'm not –"

"We weren't thinking of using you," Saporta says.

Jon falls silent, looking confused.

"Oh," says Brendon.

 _Oh. Of course._

Spencer and Ryan look as lost as Jon does, but he's not sure why. It's pretty obvious what Saporta's suggesting.

Saporta smiles. "Victoria suggested it," he says. "Patrick backed her up at once. Both of them agree they can't think of a better man for the job – and of course, if you're one of the performers, you've got a reason to be there every day –"

– playing music for a crowd, with other musicians, and honestly, Brendon thinks, it would sound – it would sound _perfect_ , except –

Brendon shifts from foot to foot. They never left him. He had thought they would - thought they _should_ , before they forgave him, before everything changed - but they never left him. They're with him every morning when he wakes up, every day as they plan and scheme and dream of ways to save people, every night when he falls into bed. He won't leave them either.

He bites his lip. Saporta is watching him closely, his expression unreadable.

"I don't know," Brendon says.

"No," says Ryan flatly.

Brendon looks at him in surprise, but he's not talking to Brendon. He's speaking to Saporta.

"I beg your pardon?" Saporta says.

"No." Ryan folds his arms, looking stubborn. Brendon feels an arm wrap around him from behind and he blinks and looks round: it's Spencer, and he's glowering. Even before Ryan goes on, Brendon understands, and warm, bright feeling washes over him. He leans back into Spencer's embrace and lets Ryan explain. "He's not going anywhere without us," says Ryan. He glances at Jon and adds, " _Neither_ of them is."

Saporta raises his eyebrows. "I wasn't suggesting that, as a matter of fact. When I've suddenly got three brand new agents, I like to use them. It's a peculiarity of mine. And none of you is any use to me here."

"Then what do you want?" says Spencer.

"You're Smith, aren't you?" says Saporta. "We've met before, but you probably don't remember. You've acquired a bit of a reputation in the organization, you know. You seem to impress people everywhere you go."

"I'm not –" Spencer breaks off and falls silent. When Brendon twists out of his arms to look at him his face is flushed and uncertain. Brendon puts a hand on his arm, reassuring.

"Aren't you?" says Saporta, skeptically. "That remains to be seen. And in the meantime Maja needs back-up."

"She _does?_ " murmurs Jon. Brendon can see his point. Maja is kind of scary.

Maja shrugs. "I have come too close to being seen too often," she says. "It is not –"

"Safe," finishes Saporta. "At the end of the day, she's too easily traced back to me, and from me you can find _everyone._ "

Spencer doesn't say anything. "What do you want him to do?" says Ryan.

Saporta lifts his eyebrows. "A little of this, a little of that. It depends. Can't he speak for himself?"

Ryan goes pale and Spencer goes still and Jon's eyes go angry, but Brendon cuts ahead of them all by saying, "Ryan can speak for all of us." After a second he feels Spencer relax against him again. Jon nods, folding his arms. Ryan inspects his cufflinks for a moment but when he looks up he throws Brendon a smile, just a quick small one. Ryan doesn't do big smiles anyway.

"Hmm," says Saporta, which could mean anything.

Ryan says quietly, "And what did you have in mind for me?"

"Me? Nothing," says Saporta. "But Pete wants to talk to you, and I've learned to trust his instincts. He sends his love, by the way."

Ryan looks at his cufflinks again, and then at Spencer for a long moment. Spencer takes a half step towards him and says, "Ryan."

"You want us to go to town," Ryan says to Saporta.

"That's the idea," says Saporta.

" _Ryan_ ," says Spencer again. Brendon tries to catch Jon's eye, but Jon seems as confused as he is, his eyes cutting between Ryan and Spencer uncertainly.

There are still so many dark places, Brendon thinks. So many things none of them say. It's safer that way, now that the worst of the hurt has been swept away. It's safer to leave the past where it is and not think about it, and live only in the now, in the summer.

Spencer is still looking at Ryan, but he doesn't say anything else. He seems to be waiting for something, or maybe it's Ryan who's waiting. Spencer doesn't say anything, but something in Ryan's expression changes, like he has the answer he was expecting. Ryan looks at Jon, and Jon nods slightly, then he turns to Brendon. Brendon smiles.

Ryan folds his arms. "All right," he says.

"All right?" repeats Saporta.

"All right," says Ryan. "We'll go."

 _The End_


End file.
